A  C  RY  OF 
•YOUTH  • 


CYNTHIA.  LOMBARD! 


A  CRY  OF  YOUTH 


A  CRY  OF  YOUTH 


BY 

CYNTHIA  LOMBARDI 


D.  APPLETON  AND   COMPANY 

NEW  YORK  LONDON 

1920 


COPYRIGHT,  1920,  BY 
D   APPLETON  AND  COMPANY 


PBIXTSD    IN    THE    ITNTTKD    STATES    OF    AMERICA 


TO 

DR.  ST.  CLAIR  SMITH 

THIS  STORY  IS 
AFFECTIONATELY  DEDICATED 


2136806 


"  Like  the  keen-visioned  eagle,  the  tender-eyed  dove, 
So  sees  the  Guardian  Angel,  Love. 
He  spreads  his  mantle  o'er  every  sin, 
But  Love  will  have  all  pure  within." 


CONTENTS 
PART  I 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I    ROSE  OF  DESTINY .  3 

II    BY  THE  ARCH  OF  TITUS 15 

III  THE  GODMOTHER'S  STORY 23 

IV  THE  STREET  OF  THE  SERPENTS     ....  34 
V    THE  ANCIENT  WINE  CELLAR 40 

VI  LEARNING  NEW  ETHICS     ......  55 

VII  THE  WEAVING  OF  THE  FATES     ....  70 

VIII    "AMORE  Mio!" 79 

IX    AN  UNEXPECTED  BLOW 93 

X    "A  MAN  SET  APART  " 101 

XI    THE  ROSARY in 

XII  LEFT  ALONE                                                   .  116 


PART  II 

XIII  THE  CASTLE  IN  UMBRIA 129 

XIV  THE  MOON-LIT  STAIR  ,; 138 

XV    THE  HIDING  PLACE 156 

XVI    COUNTING  THE  COST 166 

XVII    THE  LITTLE  ONE 180 

XVIII    "  THE  EVIL  EYE  " 198 

XIX    THE  SPELL  WORKS 217 

XX    THE  TOMB  ON  THE  MOUNTAIN  ....  230 

ix 


Contents 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XXI    THE  GLOOM  OF  THE  WINTER 244 

XXII    THE  LOST  JEWELS 255 

XXIII  THE  PASSAGE  IN  THE  CRYPT 269 

XXIV  "WHERE    CUPID    GUARDS   AND    DOLPHINS 

SWIM" .286 

XXV    THE  MURDERER 303 

PART  III 

XXVI    LEARNING  THE  TRUTH 327 

XXVII    AN  ORDER  FROM  ROME 339 

XXVIII    Two  LITTLE  SHOES 348 

XXIX    TESTED  AND  TRUE 356 

ENVOI      ...    ..     :.:     ....     ...     .     ;.     .  360 


A  CRY  OF  YOUTH 

PART  I 
FRA  FELICE 


A  CRY  OF  YOUTH 


CHAPTER  I 
ROSE  OF  DESTINY 

He  was  a  boy  when  first  we  met; 
His  eyes  were  mixed  of  dew  and  fire, 
And  on  his  candid  brow  was  set 
The  sweetness  of  a  chaste  desire. 
But  in  his  veins  the  pulses  beat 
Of  passion,  waiting  for  its  wing, 
As  ardent  veins  of  Summer  heat 
Throb  through  the  innocence  of  Spring! 

BAYARD  TAYLOR. 

That  afternoon  when  Margaret  Randolph  was  left  alone  it 
was  a  relief.  She  fairly  hated  Mrs.  Kotrell  whose  profession 
it  was  to  chaperon  "  educationally  "  young  girls  of  wealth ;  but 
in  Margaret's  case  the  arrangements  were  different,  for  Mar- 
garet was  cursed  with  what  in  her  class  is  the  greatest  of 
curses  —  poverty. 

Three  months  before  she  had  come  to  Rome  to  be  with  Mrs. 
Kotrell.  The  terms  had  been  that  Margaret  was  to  pay  her  a 
small  sum  in  money,  and  make  up  the  full  amount  due  by  being 
generally  useful;  but  there  had  seemed  nothing  for  her  to  do 
except  write  a  few  letters  for  "  Madame,"  arrange  the  flowers, 
pour  tea  in  the  afternoons,  and  start  the  French  conversation  at 
the  table.  She  was  constantly  told  that  she  was  costing  more 
than  her  services  were  worth ;  and  the  servants  soon  realized  that 
there  was  some  difference  between  the  Signorina  Randolph  and 
the  other  young  ladies,  and  all  but  one  treated  her  accordingly. 

Moreover,  she  was  criticized  and  found  fault  with  from  morn- 
ing till  night ;  she  had  to  watch  the  other  girls  squander  money 
while  she  must  deny  herself. 

3 


4  A  Cry  of  Youth 

She  had  stopped  at  home  to-day  because  she  could  not  afford 
to  go  with  the  others. 

Margaret  stood  now  in  the  corridor  of  the  apartment  occu- 
pied by  the  Kotrell  contingent  with  the  sharp  "  good-by  "  of 
the  elder  woman  still  in  her  ears.  She  was  both  unhappy  and 
homesick,  and  she  felt  so  "  out  of  it." 

A  door  opened  and  a  sweet-faced  Italian  woman  appeared 
wearing  a  spotless  white  apron  and  had  a  gray  knitted  shawl 
over  her  shoulders.  She  was  Giacinta,  duenna-maid  to  the 
young  ladies. 

"  Come  into  the  study,  Signorina;  it  is  cold  and  draughty  out 
here,"  and  she  stood  aside  for  Margaret  to  pass  in. 

"  See,"  continued  the  woman,  "  I  have  here  some  tea  and 
dolci"  and  she  pointed  to  a  tray  where  the  steaming  tea-pot 
and  plate  of  pastry  tarts  looked  very  tempting. 

Margaret  knew  that  Giacinta  liked  her,  for  she  could  not 
afford  the  large  fees  the  other  girls  gave,  yet  the  woman  was 
even  more  attentive  to  her  than  to  them. 

"  Dear  Giacinta,"  Margaret  said,  very  much  touched,  "  if  I 
ever  have  a  home  of  my  own  I  shall  send  for  you  to  come  to 
my  country  and  live  with  me." 

"  Grazia"  Giacinta  answered,  making  a  slight  deferential 
movement  of  appreciation,  "  I  will  surely  come;  "  then  taking 
the  empty  cup  from  Margaret's  hand,  added,  "  why  not  go  for 
a  walk,  cara  Signorina  ?  Stay  out  until  '  Ave  Maria,'  and 
when  you  return  I  will  have  a  bath  heated  for  you  —  Vada, 
Signorina  —  vada." 

Taking  the  advice,  Margaret  soon  found  herself  following 
the  street  that  leads  straight  to  the  steps  of  the  Capitol.  When 
she  gained  the  top  she  paused  for  a  moment  to  rest.  It  was  the 
first  time  she  had  ever  been  out  alone  in  Rome. 

Such  a  sense  of  freedom !  How  she  hated  the  stiff  afternoon 
promenade  with  Madame  and  the  girls ;  she  had  always  longed 
to  prowl  about  by  herself  and  go  where  she  chose.  So  turning 
to  the  left  of  the  Campidoglio,  she  passed  the  Marmertime 


Rose  of  Destiny 


Prison  and  walked  on  and  on  through  small,  narrow  streets, 
until  at  last  there  was  the  sign  "  Via  Colosseo,"  and  she  saw 
looming  before  her  the  gigantic  ruin  of  the  Colosseum. 

She  had  wandered  a  good  distance  enjoying  the  clear,  frosty 
December  air,  and  her  new-found  liberty. 

From  the  Colosseum  she  strolled  over  to  the  Arch  of  Titus 
and  stood  before  the  railing  enclosing  the  Forum,  gazing  upon 
its  desolation.  Then  she  noticed  at  her  left  a  half  concealed 
road  which  ran  alongside  numerous  brick  ruins :  —  she  would 
see  where  it  led. 

It  followed  the  brick  ruins  for  a  space,  then  turned  into  a 
picturesque  path  which  had  a  high  wall  of  masonry  on  one 
side  and  on  the  other,  through  the  bare  trees  and  shrubbery 
she  saw,  some  twenty  feet  below,  the  vast  area  of  the  decaying 
Palatine. 

In  the  wall  of  masonry  which  was  crumbling  away  in  places 
was  a  gate  with  rusty  iron  bars  boarded  up  from  the  inside. 
Above  it,  with  a  small  coping  of  stonework  to  serve  as  a  frame, 
was  an  old  faded  fresco. 

An  artist  with  a  blond  beard  was  seated  before  his  easel 
making  a  copy  of  the  gate-way. 

Margaret  paused  and  addressed  him :  "  Pardon  me,  sir,  may 
I  ask  what  place  this  is  ?  " 

The  artist  lifted  his  eyes  from  his  work  and  said,  "  I  speak 
,not  English." 

Margaret  repeated  the  question  in  French  and  he  answered 
this  time  in  the  same  language  and  with  the  courtesy  that  one 
foreigner  in  Rome  usually  extends  to  another.  He  told  her 
that  the  wall  enclosed  the  grounds  of  a  mediaeval  monastery 
built  on  the  site  of  Nero's  "  Golden  House."  He  advised  her 
to  go  and  see  the  old  buildings  at  the  top  of  the  hill.  Then 
glancing  at  the  sinking  sun,  he  put  away  his  brushes,  folded  his 
"  kit,"  and  politely  wishing  her  "  bon  soir  "  took  himself  down 
the  path  up  which  she  had  just  come. 

She  thought  perhaps  it  might  be  better  to  follow  him  so  as 


6  A  Cry  of  Youth 

to  be  sure  of  her  way  back—  it  was  growing  late;  but  the  ex- 

ploring mood  was  on  her,  so  on  she  went  ascending  the  , 

that  turned  again  into  an  avenue  of  tall  eucalyptus' 

on  either  side  where  Stations  of  the  Crc- 

intervals.     At  the  top  was  an  old 

masonry.     There  were  some  rambling,  battered  building  at- 

tached  to   the  church,   and  the  whole  was   picturesque 

ancient.  ,  ,., 

The  place  seemed  deserted;  there  was  not  a  sign  o 


r  felt  as  if  she  had  left  the  world  far  away,  and 

while  she  enjoyed  the  artistic  beauty  of  it,  there  was  a 
dreadful  loneliness.     How  she  would  have  liked  a  omgenut 
companion,  someone  for  whom  she  cared,  and  who  cared 
her.     There  was  dear,  good  Giacinta,  but  she  was  a  servant 
Oh   for  someone  in  her  own  class  of  life,  just  a  fnend!     A 
the  'other  girls  at  the  "  school  "  were  happy,  and  each  one  had 
found  her  "chum,"  and  she  was  so  different!     A  wave  . 
youthful  bitterness  rushed  over  her  starting  the  tears. 
her  handkerchief  to  her  eyes;  she  could  cry  here  for  s 

all  alone.  , 

The  shutting  of  a  heavy  door  made  her  look  up.     A  mon 
in  the  brown  habit  of  a  Franciscan  had  left  the  building  and 
was  coming  down  the  path.     The  wind  soughed  through  t 
leafless  trees  and  blew  a  sharp  gale.     Margaret  shivered 
the  monk  drew  his  pointed  hood  over  his  head.     Margare 
tears  were  flowing  fast;  she  had  not  cried  for  a  long  time,  anc 
now  had  quite  lost  control  of  herself.     The  monk  was  clc 
beside  her  ;  he  stopped  !     "  Che  cosa  ha,  Signorina  ?  " 

Margaret  turned  away;  she  was  ashamed  of  her  tears. 
repeated  the  question,  at  the  same  time  asking  if  he  could  help 
her.     His  voice  was  refined  and  musical;  she  felt  obliged 
answer.     She  wiped  her  eyes  and  turned  towards  him;  as  she 
did  so  an  exclamation  escaped  her  lips  and  she  stood  staring  \ 
him,  unable  to  speak.    The  face  before  her  was  the  most  wot 


Rose  of  Destiny  1 

derful  into  which  she  had  ever  looked.  He  was  very  young, 
too  yo'ing  to  be  in  Holy  Orders :  he  must  still  be  in  his  noviti- 
ate, -lought..  From  under  his  hood  came  thick  clustering 
locks,  -  i-'  -vixLhis  eyes  were  marvelous!  They  were 

wi^  ope  .  .i  r  ir,  of  a  tawny-yellow  brown,  and  the 

thi«_«c  curling  lasnts  helped  to  make  them  like  scintillating  stars. 
His  features  had  all  the  chiseled  beauty  of  Grecian  art  and 
there  was  a  rich  crimson  over  his  olive  complexion  denoting 
happy,  healthy  youth.  This  was  the  most  radiant  countenance 
she  had  ever  beheld.  He  was  carrying  some  long  slips  from  a 
rose  bush,  carefully  tied  with  cord,  and,  loosely,  one  big  red 
rose. 

"  Che  cosa  ha?  "  he  repeated  again. 

Margaret  found  her  voice.     "  I  am  unhappy,"  she  said. 

"  Ah,  forestiera"  he  answered,  recognizing  her  foreign  ac- 
cent. "  And  why  unhappy  ?  " 

Margaret's  Italian  was  very  limited;  so  hesitatingly,  she 
replied : 

"  I  live  —  with  —  people  —  I  love  not." 

"  Ah,"  he  said  again,  "  have  you  no  other  friends,  Sig- 
norina?  " 

"  No." 

"  That  is  sad ;  where  may  the  Signorina  live  ?  " 

"  Oh,  a  —  long  —  distance  —  from  here,  and  I  —  have  — 
lost  my  way." 

"  I  will  show  you  the  way,"  he  said.  "  Come."  They 
started  down  the  path,  the  young  man  ahead.  Every  now  and 
then  he  would  turn  and  ask  her  a  question :  "  Have  you  been 
long  in  Italy?  " 

"  Three  months." 

"And  what  may  be  the  Signorina's  country?" 

"  America ;  I  am  from  the  United  States,  the  City  of  New 
York." 

"  Ah,  Nuova  Yorkaf     Is  it  as  beautiful  as  Rome?  " 

"Very  different.     Here  —  all  —  is  —  old,  there  all  new." 


8  A  Cry  of  Youth 


"  And  do  you  not  like  Rome,  Signorina?  " 

"  No." 

The  young  Franciscan  stopped,  horrified.  "  What,"  he  ex- 
claimed, "  you  do  not  like  Roma,  bella  Roma!  " 

Margaret  felt  she  owed  an  explanation.  "  I  have  not  — 
been  —  happy  —  here  —  I  have  —  no  —  friends  —  I  —  cannot 
—  speak  —  your  language." 

He  smiled,  and  the  smile  was  exquisite,  as  he  said  consolingly, 
"  You  will  speak  soon,  Signorina,  I  will  pray  for  it.  You  must 
not  be  unhappy.  I  am  never  unhappy,  never!  " 

The  radiance  of  his  face  verified  his  words.  It  was  a  coun- 
tenance that  looked  as  if  no  sorrow,  no  pain,  no  care,  no  per- 
plexity, not  the  shadow  of  a  doubt  or  fear,  had  ever  passed  over 
it. 

They  had  reached  the  Colosseum  now  and  he  pointed  with 
the  rose  to  a  clump  of  brick-work  near  them,  and  explained 
that  it  was  the  remains  of  the  pedestal  upon  which  a  colossal 
statue  of  the  wicked  Emperor  Nero  had  once  stood ;  and  placing 
the  rose  between  his  even,  white  teeth,  he  picked  up  a  small 
stone  and  flung  it  at  the  ruins  with  the  words  — "  Cattivo 
Nerone!"  As  he  raised  his  arm,  the  loose  sleeve  of  his  habit 
fell  away,  and  Margaret  could  see  that  it  was  strong  and  sym- 
metrical. Taking  the  rose  from  his  mouth  he  smiled  again,  and 
Margaret  found  enough  Italian  to  express  her  admiration  for  it. 

It  was  an  unusual  rose,  big  and  rich  in  form  and  color,  yet 
most  delicate  in  texture,  and  it  exhaled  a  rare,  subtle  perfume. 
A  look  of  pride  passed  over  his  face,  and  he  said,  "  The  Sig- 
norina makes  me  a  double  compliment,  for  I  have  charge  of  the 
rose-beds  —  I.  These  roses  I  cultivate  myself,  and  I  can  make 
them  bloom  all  winter.  I  carry  now  a  few  slips  to  the  Nuns 
of  San  Guiseppe,  who  also  wish  to  raise  them:  I  love  my 
roses,  tanto  —  tanto!  "  Then,  with  a  slight  flush,  as  if  ashamed 
of  his  enthusiasm,  he  tossed  the  flower  up  his  ample  sleeve,  and 
moved  on. 


Rose  of  Destiny  9 

"  If  you  will  take  me  as  far  as  the  Church  of  the  Gesu," 
Margaret  said  as  they  proceeded,  "  I  can  find  my  way  from 
there." 

They  continued  their  walk,  he  going  first  and  she  following. 
He  held  his  head  high  and  had  a  fine,  bold  carriage,  and  it  was 
difficult  for  her  to  keep  up  with  his  long,  easy  strides.  It  was 
that  free,  graceful  walk  of  ancient  races  unhampered  by  mod- 
ern dress.  He  might  have  the  blood  of  the  Caesars  in  his  veins, 
she  thought,  and  yet  his  features  were  not  Roman;  their  soft 
contour  and  rich  coloring,  bespoke  more  the  blood  of  the  South. 
At  intervals  as  they  threaded  their  way  through  the  crowded 
streets,  he  would  turn  back  and  smile  encouragingly,  and  each 
time  she  drew  near  him  she  detected  the  odor  of  his  splendid 
rose.  Arriving  at  the  church,  she  said, — "  I  am  going  in,"  and 
this  time  he  followed  her. 

Margaret  would  have  given  a  great  deal  to  speak  Italian 
fluently,  and  as  they  might  not  talk  in  the  street,  she  wished  to 
make  an  opportunity  to  try  and  thank  him  as  best  she  could ;  so 
she  said  after  entering,  "  It  is  very  kind  of  you  to  bring  me 
here,"  and,  holding  out  her  hand,  "  I  thank  you." 

He  bowed  low  as  he  took  it  with  the  air  of  a  courtier.  "  It 
is  nothing,"  he  said,  "  I  am  happy  to  be  of  service,"  then  fol- 
lowed several  long  sentences  of  which  she  could  only  under- 
stand a  few  words,  though  he  repeated  them,  so  there  was  noth- 
ing to  do  but  thank  him  once  more  and  say  "  good-bye." 

Thinking  he  might  possibly  follow  her,  instead  of  going  di- 
rectly from  the  church  she  crossed  over  to  the  small  chapel 
near  the  tomb  of  St.  Ignatius  Loyola.  It  happened  to  be 
empty,  and  she  knelt  down. 

Benediction  service  was  being  held,  and  the  familiar  music  of 
the  "  Tantum  ergo  "  and  the  odor  of  incense  were  soothing  and 
restful.  She  remained  for  some  moments,  not  praying,  only 
thinking.  All  at  once  she  felt  a  sort  of  magnetic  current  go 
through  her  entire  body  —  the  young  creature  in  the  brown 
habit  was  kneeling  beside  her. 


10  A  Cry  of  Youth 

There  was  scent  of  red  roses  in  the  air,  the  choir  sounded 
like  angels'  voices,  and  the  chapel  seemed  flooded  with  a  daz- 
zling, supernatural  light.  She  closed  her  eyes  to  let  the  won- 
drous, novel  sensation  fill  her  soul;  then  the  singing  of  the 
choir  ceased,  and  all  was  still. 

Suddenly  from  the  seven  hills  of  the  old,  old  city  the  bells 
rang  out  the  sunset  "  Ave  Maria." 

She  opened  her  eyes,  the  lights  had  vanished  and  she  was 
alone ;  but  on  the  spot  where  the  young  monk  had  knelt  was  a 
red  rose. 

The  next  morning  Margaret  awoke  with  the  sense  of  having 
vaguely  dreamed.  She  had  been  walking  up  a  road  with  tall 
trees  on  either  side.  An  artist  with  a  blond  beard  had  taken 
her  into  the  church  of  the  Gesvi  and  shown  her  a  picture  painted 
by  himself  of  a  young  saint  in  a  brown  habit,  with  great 
tawny  eyes  and  a  beautiful  mouth.  All  through  the  day  the 
eyes  seemed  following  her  and  the  mouth  smiling. 

She  felt  brighter  than  she  had  for  weeks,  as  if  she  had 
been  drinking  sparkling  wine  and  its  buoyancy  had  not  yet 
passed  off. 

She  had  to  go  to  the  bank  with  "  Madame,"  write  some  let- 
ters, accompany  the  girls  to  the  Rospigliosi  Gallery,  and  it  was 
not  until  late  in  the  afternoon  that  she  was  free  to  think  over 
the  events  of  yesterday.  Then  she  stood  by  the  drooping  rose 
on  her  table  and  seejned  to  dream  again.  While  Giacinta 
helped  her  dress  for  dinner,  Margaret  asked  if  she  knew  of  any 
Convents  or  Monasteries  on  the  Palatine  Hill. 

"  There  is  the  old  Convent  of  the  Visitation  Nuns,  Sig- 
norina,  which  the  Government  broke  up ;  it  has  been  abandoned 
for  some  years." 

"  Are  you  sure  tKere  is  no  one  living  in  it,  no  friars  in  brown 
habits,"  she  asked  again. 

"  No  one  lives  in  it,  unless  it  be  brown  owls." 

"  I  am  sure  there  is  a  monastery  not  far  from  the  Arch  of 
Titus." 


Rose  of  Destiny  11 

"  I  know  of  nothing  near  there,  cara  Signorina,  but  many 
ruins." 

Margaret  was  determined  at  the  very  first  opportunity  to  try 
and  find  the  place  again. 

She  had  now  something  to  interest  her  and  she  felt  better  for 
it. 

She  was  romantic  without  being  sentimental,  and  of  an  ad- 
venturous spirit,  and  hated  the  common-place,  but  her  limited 
means  gave  her  very  little  scope  for  anything  else. 

She  remembered  a  luxurious  childhood,  and  an  indulgent 
father  who  one  day  was  found  dead ;  his  fortune  had  vanished, 
it  seemed,  and  there  was  almost  nothing  left  for  his  widow  and 
two  little  daughters. 

The  sisters  were  taken  from  their  fashionable  school,  and 
there  were  years  of  cheap  flats,  shabby  clothes,  and  summers  in 
town. 

Their  mother  secured  a  position  as  "  Social  Secretary  "  to  a 
prominent  society  leader  to  whom  she  went  every  day,  but  it 
was  only  with  the  utmost  economy  that  she  could  make  two 
ends  meet,  and  she  was  almost  breaking  down  under  the  strain 
when  a  cousin  of  their  father's,  the  wealthy  Mrs.  Cornelia 
Ward,  who  had  been  living  in  California,  returned  to  her  New 
York  home  and  became  greatly  interested  in  the  two  girls. 

Josephine,  the  elder,  was  very  handsome;  she  had  sunny 
brown  hair,  brilliant  coloring,  and  a  rather  dashing  manner. 
Margaret  was  small,  quieter  than  her  sister,  but  with  a  clear 
active  mind.  Though  not  exactly  pretty,  she  had  some  almost 
beautiful  points.  Her  dark  brown  hair  was  unusually  long  and 
thick,  her  eyes  were  dark  brown  with  finely  marked  eye- 
brows, and  she  had  a  pure  white  skin.  Her  nose  belonged  to 
no  particular  class,  and  her  mouth  was  sweet  with  pretty  little 
teeth ;  but  her  chief  charm  lay  in  a  certain  wistful  expression 
that  made  strangers  turn  to  look  at  her  again,  and  impressed 
her  face  upon  their  memory. 

Cousin  Cornelia  Ward  had  taken  the  two  girls  to  live  with 


12  A  Cry  of  Youth 


her.  She  would  dress  them  and  give  them  opportunities,  and 
indeed  shortly  afterwards  Josephine  was  married  to  handsome 
young  Philip  Dacre,  a  gentleman  of  excellent  family,  possessed 
of  a  rich  and  doting  grandmother.  It  was  a  genuine  "  love- 
match,"  and  Josephine  was  supremely  happy  in  a  smart  estab- 
lishment of  her  own. 

Then  a  Mr.  Grant,  who  was  Mrs.  Ward's  business  man- 
ager, came  from  California.  He  was  about  thirty-eight,  plain 
in  appearance,  but  a  successful,  rising  man.  The  "  Salt  of  the 
Earth,"  Cousin  Cornelia  had  called  him,  and  talked  to  Mar- 
garet a  great  deal  about  the  wealth  he  was  accumulating,  and 
the  name  he  was  making. 

Margaret  thought  Wallace  Grant  the  most  uninteresting  in- 
dividual she  had  ever  met,  and  to  her  annoyance  she  felt  that 
he  liked  her.  However,  this  was  much  to  Mrs.  Ward's  satis- 
faction; she  had  made  up  her  mind  to  marry  off  both  of  her 
attractive  young  cousins  advantageously. 

Margaret  understood  her  hopes,  but  she  was  only  nineteen 
and  she  wished  to  be  in  love  with  the  man  she  married,  and 
have  something  romantic  and  beautiful  come  into  her  life,  and 
not  sell  herself  to  a  "  bore  "  double  her  age.  Had  she  not  as 
much  right  to  love  and  happiness  as  her  sister?  But  she  had 
to  be  very  polite  to  him  for  Cousin  Cornelia's  sake. 

One  afternoon  upon  going  into  the  library  she  had  found 
Mrs.  Ward  and  Wallace  Grant  talking  confidentially,  and 
later  Cousin  Cornelia  had  sent  for  her  to  come  to  her  room 
and  closed  the  door. 

"  I  have  had  a  letter  from  your  mother,"  she  said,  "  asking 
me  to  help  her,  and  am  sending  her  a  check.  You  know,  Mar- 
garet, that  when  I  undertook  to  provide  for  you  two  girls  I 
thought  that  being  relieved  from  the  expense  of  her  daughters 
your  mother  would  be  able  to  get  along  without  further  assist- 
ance; but  it  seems  she  has  run  into  debt  and  her  creditors  are 
making  trouble.  I  wish  with  all  my  heart  you  were  as  happily 
settled  as  Jo  is  —  "  Cousin  Cornelia  paused ;  "  if  any  good 


Rose  of  Destiny  13 

man  —  who  you  know  can  give  you  the  home  that  your  station 
in  life  requires,  should  ask  you  to  marry  him,  I  would  not  be 
too  particular.  That  is  all,  dear." 

Margaret  had  stumbled  up  to  her  room  shocked  and  dis- 
tressed. Oh,  why,  why  had  her  mother  done  this?  Cousin 
Cornelia  had  been  so  generous  and  lavish  to  them  —  oh,  it  was 
too  mortifying! 

That  same  evening  Mr.  Grant  poured  forth  a  torrent  of  love. 

He  had  cared  for  her  the  moment  he  saw  her,  though  he  did 
not  dare  to  hope,  there  was  so  much  difference  in  their  ages,  but 
to-day  Mrs.  Ward  had  given  him  some  encouragement.  He 
had  been  too  busy  making  money  to  give  marriage  a  thought 
until  he  had  met  her.  Would  she  be  his  wife? 

And  Margaret  had  taken  her  cue  and  said  "  yes." 

The  preparations  for  the  wedding  had  been  hastened,  the 
invitations  were  out,  the  bridal  gown  was  in  the  house,  but  no 
one  knew  of  the  tears  Margaret  shed  in  private,  nor  of  the 
agony  of  mind  she  was  in.  She  would  infinitely  rather  go 
back  to  her  mother  and  battle  with  dire  poverty  than  bind  her- 
self for  life,  young  as  she  was,  for  Margaret  had  been  reared 
in  the  Catholic  faith  to  believe  that  marriage  was  an  indis- 
soluble tie. 

But  she  dared  not  assert  herself.  She  was  fond  of  Cousin 
Cornelia  though  a  little  afraid  of  her,  and  dreaded  her  anger; 
however,  as  the  wedding-day  drew  near  she  felt  she  would 
rather  die  than  marry  Wallace  Grant.  She  hated  him,  hated 
him,  so  in  a  moment  of  courage  and  desperation,  she  scribbled 
a  note  to  Wallace  breaking  the  engagement,  and  another  to 
Cousin  Cornelia  thanking  her  for  all  she  had  done  for  her,  then 
had  hurriedly  slipped  out  of  the  imposing  mansion  on  upper 
Fifth  Avenue,  back  to  the  cheap,  semi-dark  apartment,  and  had 
sobbed  her  heart  out  in  her  .mother's  arms. 

Then  followed  terrible  days.  The  scoldings  of  Josephine, 
the  indignation  of  Cousin  Cornelia  for  daring  to  allow  matters 
to  proceed  so  far.  Back  out  now?  Then  she  washed  her 


14  A  Cry  of  Youth 

hands  of  her  entirely  from  henceforth;  worst  of  all  was  the 
heart-broken  resignation  of  Wallace  Grant. 

Only  her  mother,  though  profoundly  disappointed,  had  taken 
her  part.  Mrs.  Randolph  had  just  met  Mrs.  Kotrell  (who  ap- 
peared charming  in  New  York)  and  the  mother  sold  one  of 
her  solitaire  rings  to  send  Margaret  to  Rome.  She  thought  it 
might  be  better  for  the  youngest  daughter  to  go  far  away  for  a 
while,  and  at  the  same  time  begin  to  learn  to  be  self-supporting. 

So  Margaret,  knowing  the  sacrifices  that  her  mother  had 
made,  kept  most  of  her  trials  from  her;  writing  home  as  cheer- 
fully as  possible;  though  in  reality  only  unpleasant,  disagree- 
able, wounding  things  had  happened,  until  that  day  when  she 
had  seen  a  wonderful  face  peeping  out  of  a  brown  hood,  in 
vivid  contrast  to  her  own  sadness. 


CHAPTER  II 

BY  THE  ARCH  OF  TITUS 

"  Life  is  a  game  in  which  from  unseen  sources, 
The  cards  are  shuffled,  and  the  hearts  are  dealt, 
Vain  are  all  efforts  to  control  the  forces, 
Which  though  unseen,  are  no  less  strongly  felt." 

There  was  a  week  of  rain,  and  Rome  was  filled  to  overflow- 
ing for  the  Christmas  season.  One  could  hardly  go  on  the 
Corso  without  danger  of  having  one's  eyes  put  out  by  the  points 
of  multitudinous  umbrellas.  Mrs.  Kotrell  was  irritable,  the 
house  cold,  the  girls  bored  from  having  to  stay  so  long  indoors 
and  Margaret  kept  watching  the  sky  until  enough  blue  should 
appear  to  warrant  her  venturing  out  on  a  long  ramble,  for  she 
meant  to  try  and  find  again  the  romantic  path  she  felt  sure  lay 
somewhere  near  the  Arch  of  Titus. 

As  to  that  strange  youth  in  the  brown  habit,  she  had  but  the 
slightest  clue  to  go  on.  She  did  not  even  know  his  name  only 
that  he  had  told  her  he  had  the  care  of  the  rose-beds.  But  she 
made  her  plans.  She  took  a  picture  card  suitable  for  Christ- 
mastide,  and  on  the  back  of  it  wrote,  "  From  the  American  who 
lost  her  way,"  and  the  date,  "  December  12,  19  —  ";  then  she 
put  the  little  token  in  an  envelope  with  a  twenty-five  lire  note. 
She  knew  that  she  must  have  some  excuse  for  wishing  to  see  him 
and  besides  at  Christmas  she  always  made  some  donation  to  the 
poor.  All  religious  communities,  she  knew,  had  poor  whom 
they  helped. 

At  last  the  rain  had  ceased  and  she  had  a  free  afternoon.  As 
she  passed  the  church  of  the  Gesu,  she  decided  to  stop  there 
first.  Dropping  a  coin  for  good  luck  to  the  beggar  who  held 
aside  the  heavy  leather  curtain  for  her  to  enter,  she  went 
straight  to  the  side  chapel  near  the  Tomb  of  St.  Ignatius  and 
knelt  down. 

15 


16  A  Cry  of  Youth 

While  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour  she  waited  there  very  quietly, 
she  turned  several  times  to  see  who  were  kneeling  near  her,  but 
they  were  commonplace  people  she  had  never  seen  before,  then 
she  left  the  church  and  walked  on;  she  did  not  stop  until  she 
had  reached  her  goal,  the  Arch  of  Titus. 

She  looked  about  her.  There  were  "  many  ruins,"  just  as 
Giacinta  had  said,  but  she  saw  no  path.  She  gave  a  sigh  of 
disappointment;  would  she  ever  unravel  this  mystery?  Well, 
she  would  go  back,  and  she  faced  the  Colosseum.  But  what 
was  that  coming  towards  her?  Surely  it  was  a  brown-habited 
figure.  Her  heart  stood  still.  What  if  it  should  be  —  that 
one?  He  was  quite  near  now  and  she  saw  instead  of  the 
straight,  elastic  figure  of  her  memory,  a  fat  stooping  old  monk 
of  unkempt  appearance.  But  he  was  a  ray  of  hope;  he  passed 
her  at  the  distance  of  a  few  yards,  then  turned  and  disappeared 
in  the  ruins  of  ancient  Roman  brick  opposite.  She  darted  after 
him  and  saw  that  there  was  a  path  after  all,  only  concealed  at 
the  angle  where  she  had  stood  by  the  Arch.  An  unobserving 
person  might  go  there  a  dozen  times  and  never  notice  it.  She 
had  stumbled  upon  it  by  accident  the  other  day. 

Another  turn  and  walls  rose  on  either  side  and  there  was  the 
old  gateway  with  the  faded  fresco  above  it,  only  the  artist  was 
not  there.  But  now  that  she -had  found  the  place  how  was  she 
to  find  the  particular  monk  she  had  come  to  see?  There  was 
nothing  to  do  but  ask. 

The  old  monk  seemed  to  find  the  ascent  difficult,  for  he 
paused  now  and  then  to  take  breath.  The  last  turning  brought 
them  to  the  long  avenue  of  eucalyptus  trees  and  the  Stations 
of  the  Cross,  and  at  the  top  the  path  ended  in  front  of  the  old 
church.  The  monk  paused  once  more  but  she  hesitated,  and 
yet  there  was  no  reason  why  she,  coming  to  return  a  favor, 
could  not  ask  for  a  member  of  his  community  who  had  been 
kind  to  her.  The  monk  was  now  at  the  convent  door;  he  was 
pulling  a  long  rope,  attached  to  a  bell  high  up  in  a  niche  in  the 
wall.  It  rang  long  and  loudly  and  echoed  through  chamber 


By  the  Arch  of  Titus  17 

after  chamber  inside.  She  knew  this  was  her  last  chance,  so 
in  a  trembling  voice,  she  ventured:  " Reverendo?  " 

He  turned.  "  Is  there,"  she  began,  "  I  do  not  know  his 
name,  but  I  would  like  to  see  the  Religious  who  tends  the  rose- 
beds." 

The  monk  looked  puzzled,  for  Margaret  spoke  in  slow,  im- 
perfect Italian;  "big,  red-roses,"  she  added. 

"  Ah  — "  Then  there  came  the  shuffle  of  sandaled  feet 
over  the  stone  pavement  within,  and  the  door  was  opened  wide 
enough  for  to  see  a  big,  burly  brother  in  the  same  brown  habit. 

The  old  monk  said  something  to  him  which  she  could  not 
understand;  then  telling  her  to  wait  he  passed  in,  and  the  door 
was  closed  again.  A  moment  after  she  heard  the  creaking  of 
bolts  and  bars  and  the  church  door  was  opened  by  the  same 
man  she  had  followed.  He  motioned  her  to  enter.  Evidently 
no  woman  was  allowed  within  the  convent  proper  and  she  must 
settle  her  affairs  in  the  church.  Again  the  old  monk  told  her 
to  wait,  and  disappeared. 

She  looked  about  her;  the  church  was  small  and  dimly 
lighted  by  one  large  window  over  the  door.  The  stone  floor- 
ing was  covered  with  marble  tablets  so  old  and  worn  that  their 
inscriptions  were  almost  illegible. 

Above  the  high  altar  was  a  lattice,  and  she  thought  she  saw 
a  figure  behind  it  looking  down  upon  her. 

There  was  a  devotional  atmosphere  about  the  little  church; 
there  were  no  irreverent  tourists  here;  it  was  quiet  and  peace- 
ful and  solitary.  Instinctively  she  put  her  hand  in  the  holy 
water  font  and  made  the  sign  of  the  cross. 

The  old  monk  returned  and  spoke  to  her  from  behind  the 
bars.  "  I  have  sent  for  one  of  our  religious,"  he  said,  "  who 
may  understand,  and  would  not  the  Signorina  like  to  see  our 
treasured  Relic,  the  Blessed  Saint  who  sleeps  his  last  sleep 
here." 

Margaret  thanked  him  and  said  she  would.  He  opened  a 
gate  in  the  barred  inclosure  and  she  stepped  inside  and  knelt 


18  A  Cry  of  Youth 

down.  The  monk  turned  a  crank  somewhere  back  of  the  altar, . 
and  the  brass  grill-work  in  'front  of  it  sank  into  the  floor  and 
disclosed  a  long  glass  case,  inside  of  which  reposed  the  body  of 
an  aged  member  of  the  Order,  his  folded  hands  clasping  a 
crucifix,  the  personification  of  peaceful  rest.  A  bundle  of  long 
sharp-pointed  rods  lay  beside  him,  "  for  discipline,"  the  monk 
explained,  as  he  saw  her  questioning  glance.  Here  he  had  lain 
for  more  than  three  hundred  years,  he  told  her,  in  a  state  of 
miraculous  preservation.  As  she  knelt  in  contemplation  of  the 
truly  saintly  countenance  she  felt  a  movement  near  her  and  look- 
ing around  saw  bending  over  her  the  youth  she  had  come  to 
find. 

He  was  holding  out  his  hand,  "Ah  —  la  Signorina;"  then, 
"  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you." 

His  manner  was  precisely  as  if  he  had  been  expecting  her, 
his  face  was  aglow  with  pleasure  and  the  hearty  greeting 
sounded  good  to  her.  "  Did  you  reach  home  safely  the  other 
evening?  "  His  voice  was  even  sweeter  than  she  remembered 
it,  the  richest,  softest  Italian  she  had  ever  heard  and  what  was 
more,  to-day  she  could  understand  all  he  said. 

She  told  him  "  yes  "  and  that  she  had  come  to  thank  him, 
and  giving  him  the  envelope  she  had  brought  she  explained  that 
the  lire  were  for  the  poor,  a  Christmas  offering.  The  older 
monk  seeing  money  pass  between  them  believed  she  had  come  to 
purchase  some  of  the  convent  roses,  and  slipped  away. 

The  young  one  thanked  her  with  charming  graciousness ;  he 
would  keep  the  picture-card  "  always,  always,"  and  he  told  her 
of  an  old  woman  who  needed  help  sadly  —  poveretta  —  he 
would  take  the  money  to  her  and  say  that  a  beautiful  young 
Signorina  Americana  had  sent  it,  "  and,"  he  added  with  a 
bright  smile,  "  your  Italian,  Signorina,  has  improved ;  you  speak 
well  to-day." 

Margaret  answered  that  she  had  noticed  herself  that  within 
the  last  week  it  had  come  to  her  much  more  easily.  "  I  knew 
it,  I  knew  it,"  he  cried  with  delight. 


By  the  Arch  of  Titus  19 

"  How  did  you  know  it  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Because,"  and  his  voice  dropped  a  key  lower,  "  because  I 
have  prayed  that  you  might  learn  to  speak  my  language  and 
my  prayers  are  always  answered." 

"  Ah,"  she  sighed,  "  how  happy  you  must  be;  mine  never  are." 

"But  they  will  be,"  he  said.  "Do  not  despair,  Signorina; 
sometimes  the  angels  are  slow  in  carrying  our  messages.  Ask 
now  this  holy  saint  to  intercede  for  you,  that  Heaven  may  grant 
what  you  wish,  and  I  will  pray  also  for  your  intention,"  and 
he  dropped  on  his  knees  beside  her. 

She  was  to  pray  for  what  she  wanted?  Oh,  God,  she  wanted 
so  much,  where  was  she  to  begin? 

The  young  brother's  eyes  were  closed,  all  his  mind  and  soul 
concentrated  upon  the  intention  of  her  prayer,  whatever  it 
might  be.  She  looked  from  the  dead  monk  before  her  to  the 
living  one  beside  her;  both  were  clothed  in  the  same  brown 
habit,  both  wore  the  knotted  white  cords  about  the  waist,  the 
same  rosary  hung  at  each  man's  side.  The  one  lying  under 
the  altar  was  spent  with  years  in  the  service  of  his  Lord,  and 
the  kneeling  one  was  just  starting  out.  She  glanced  from  the 
thin  locks  whitened  by  age  to  the  black  clustering  curls;  from 
the  pallid  visage  and  emaciated  body  of  the  saint  to  the  fresh, 
fair  face  with  its  glow  of  rich  color  and  the  sturdy  splendid 
form ;  from  the  poor  dried-up  corpse  to  the  living  man,  the  em- 
bodiment of  youth  and  health  and  vigor,  and  the  prayer  for 
herself  was  suddenly  cut  short  —  she  was  praying  for  him, 
who  was  kneeling  on  the  cold  stones  so  close  to  her  that  she 
could  feel  the  warmth  of  his  body. 

Crossing  himself  he  rose.     Margaret  did  likewise. 

"  It  was  kind  of  you  to  pray  that  I  might  soon  speak  Italian," 
she  said.  "  I  have  studied  it  very  hard  lately  and  I  feel  my- 
self that  I  have  improved.  And  your  prayers  are  always 
answered  like  this?  " 

"  Yes,"  he  said  fervently,  "  I  have  had  an  answer  to  prayer 
to-day  —  you  have  come." 


20  A  Cry  of  Youth 

Margaret  looked  at  him.  "  Did  you  want  to  see  me  again 
as  much  as  that  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Yes,  Signorina,"  he  answered.  His  manner  was  a  mix- 
ture of  boldness  and  shyness.  He  lowered  his  eyes  as  a  young 
girl  might  do,  and  their  long  lashes  swept  his  cheeks.  "  Then,  " 
she  said,  "  I  have  one  friend  in  Rome." 

"Ah,  yes,  yes." 

"  I  have  need  of  both  friends  and  prayers." 

"  I  will  give  you  another  friend,  Signorina,  if  you  will  allow 
me.  My  godmother  speaks  French,  also  a  little  English.  She 
is  a  lady  with  a  great  heart.  She  will  be  happy  to  make  wel- 
come in  her  house  a  friend  of  mine.  Will  you  go  to  see  her, 
Signorina?" 

Margaret's  spirits  rose.  Here  was  a  chance  of  meeting  him 
again.  She  replied  that  she  would  be  very  glad  to  do  so. 

"  Che  giorno?  " 

"What  day?"  she  considered  a  moment.  "On  Wednes- 
day." 

"  Che  ora?  " 

"  What  time,  oh,  about  four  o'clock." 

"  Buonissimo,"  and  taking  from  somewhere  out  of  the  folds 
of  his  habit  a  wallet,  he  opened  it  and  began  to  write  upon  a 
card  —  "  I  have  not  the  pleasure  of  the  Signorina's  name?  " 

"  Margaret  Randolph,"  she  said. 

"  Marga  —  Ran  —  Rando  ?  " 

She  repeated  it,  but  he  could  neither  spell  nor  pronounce  it, 
so  she  took  from  her  purse  one  of  her  own  cards  and  showed  it 
to  him. 

"  Ah,"  he  exclaimed,  "  Margherita." 

"  That  is  what  you  call  it  in  your  language." 

"  So  hard  —  too  hard  these  English  names,  I  cannot  say 
them,  but  '  Margherita '  is  a  name  molta  bella." 

He  handed  her  the  card  he  had  written  upon,  she  thanked 
him  and  put  it  in  her  purse.  Not  wishing  to  outstay  the  limits 
of  formality  she  moved  toward  the  door.  He  came  outside 


By  the  Arch  of  Titus  21 

with  her  and  as  they  stood  in  the  light  it  seemed  as  if  he  must 
be  some  young  Greek  god  vivified  in  the  twentieth  century. 

The  graceful  folds  of  the  mediaeval  habit  exactly  suited  his 
picturesque  style  and  the  warm  brown  shade  of  the  cloth  seemed 
to  enhance  his  rich  coloring.  He  was  almost  too  perfect,  she 
thought,  to  be  human. 

But  it  was  a  very  human  hand  that  took  hers,  as  he  bade  her 
good  night ;  he  would  like  to  accompany  her,  he  said,  but  he 
had  duties  within,  "  And  make  haste,  Signorina,"  he  added, 
"  young  ladies  may  not  be  out  alone  after  the  sun  sinks  behind 
the  Janiculum." 

He  still  held  her  hand;  it  was  bare.  In  her  haste  to  leave 
the  house  she  had  put  on  but  one  glove,  and  thrusting  the  other 
in  her  muff  had  not  thought  of  it  again. 

Her  hand  was  cold  and  trembling  slightly,  but  his  was  warm 
and  firm.  He  looked  her  straight  in  the  eyes,  "  You  will  come 
Wednesday,  Signorina,  sensa  dubbio? "  "  Sensa  dubbio"  she 
replied.  Then  she  turned  and  leaving  him  standing  in  the 
doorway  hurried  down  the  path.  Again  she  had  the  feeling  of 
having  drunk  sparkling  wine.  She  had  a  friend,  one  friend  in 
the  great  old  city;  he  had  prayed  for  her  and  wished  to  see 
her  again,  just  as  she  had  wished  to  see  him.  "  He  is  not  a 
dream,  he  is  not  a  dream,"  she  kept  saying,  and  to  reassure  her- 
self she  clutched  the  card  he  had  given  her.  It  was  not  until 
she  reached  the  Arch  of  Titus  that  she  stopped  to  read  it. 

"  Fra  Felice  Estori 
Dell'  Ordini  del  Minori  Francescani."  * 

And  written  underneath  was  — 

"  To  Donna  Bianca  Salviate 

Via  Pansiperna,  No  — 
Introducing  the 
Signorina  Margherita  Randolph." 

*  Order  of  Minor  Franciscans. 


22  A  Cry  of  Youth 

As  she  glanced  towards  the  Forum  her  eyes  caught  sight  of 
a  broken  pillar  of  porphory.  The  last  rays  of  the  setting  sun 
were  shining  full  upon  it;  it  was  glistening  in  a  warmth  of 
purple  and  red  and  her  heart  had  warmed  too  and  she  sped  on 
almost  happy. 

Fra  Felice  Estori  stood  watching  her  go  down  the  hill,  until 
the  turn  of  the  Convent  wall  lost  her  to  his  view.  Then  he 
reentered  the  church  and  bolted  and  barred  the  door.  Some- 
thing was  lying  on  the  floor  just  in  front  of  him.  He  stooped 
and  picked  it  up;  it  was  a  glove,  so  small  that  it  must  belong 
to  some  child,  he  thought,  but  no  child  had  been  here.  —  Then 
he  remembered  seeing  its  mate  on  his  visitor's  hand  and  pressed 
it  to  his  lips. 

A  monk  entered  bearing  a  torch  and  began  to  light  the 
candles  upon  the  altar  for  Benediction  At  his  glance  the 
younger  brother  quickly  slipped  the  glove  inside  his  habit. 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  GODMOTHER'S  STORY 

At  six,  I  said  he  was  a  charming  child, 
At  twelve,  he  was  a  fine  but  quiet  boy, 
Although  in  infancy  he  was  a  little  wild, 
They  tamed  him  down  among  them;  to  destroy- 
His  natural  spirit,  not  in  vain  they  toiled, 
At  least  it  seemed  so. 

BYRON. 

Margaret  was  as  much  interested  in  thinking  of  her  visit  to 
the  godmother  of  Fra  Felice  Estori  as  the  others  were  in  pre- 
paring to  take  tea  with  a  Roman  Princess.  At  first  her  feel- 
ings had  been  terribly  hurt  not  to  have  been  included  in  their 
party.  She  was  better  born  than  any  of  them,  and  Mrs.  Kot- 
rell  had  begun  by  taking  her  everywhere;  little  Miss  Randolph 
with  the  best  blood  of  America  in  her  veins  was  used  as  a  sort 
of  social  prop,  but  Margaret  had  seen  through  it,  and  when 
Mrs.  Kotrell  found  that  Miss  Randolph  was  not  the  wax  in 
her  hands  that  she  had  hoped  for,  the  elder  woman  had  then 
told  everyone  that  Margaret  was  merely  an  assistant,  a  poor 
girl  whom  she  was  trying  to  help.  Margaret  being  totally 
ignorant  of  this,  was  at  a  loss  to  understand  the  slights  and 
snubs  that  had  come  from  within  and  without;  but  now  to- 
day nothing  would  tempt  her  to  exchange  her  invitation  for 
another,  so  anxious  was  she  to  see  again  the  unusual,  radiant 
young  person  called  Felice  Estori  and  to  meet  his  fairy  god- 
mother as  she  thought  the  Donna  Bianca  of  the  card  must  be, 
and  many  times  that  card  had  been  taken  out  and  read  again 
and  again  to  make  sure  that  even  yet  he  was  not  a  dream. 

When  Wednesday  afternoon  came  she  left  the  house  before 
the  others  but  no  one  paid  her  any  attention  except  Giacinta, 
who  was  never  too  busy  to  open  the  door  for  her.  Madame, 
if  she  thought  of  her  at  all  except  to  envy  her  slight  pretty 

23 


24  A  Cry  of  Youth 

figure,  supposed  that  she  was  going  to  call  on  the  nuns  at  the 
Trinita  de'  Monti  to  whom  she  had  brought  letters  from 
home. 

As  Margaret  passed  out  down  the  stairs  the  portiere  rose 
and  asked  her  if  he  should  call  a  carriage.  She  told  him  she 
preferred  to  walk. 

She  would  have  liked  to  have  asked  in  what  direction  the 
Via  Panisperna  lay,  but  was  afraid  of  gossip  among  the  servants 
and  it  was  not  until  she  was  out  of  sight  of  the  house  that  she 
stopped  a  "  guardia  "  who  directed  her,  and  she  soon  found  the 
street. 

She  then  began  to  have  misgivings.  She  was  actually  going 
to  a  strange  place,  to  see  a  strange  woman  and  at  the  instiga- 
tion also  of  a  strange  man  —  for  he  was  a  man  too,  if  he  was  a 
monk,  and  she  stopped,  appalled  at  what  she  was  doing. 

Then  the  memory  of  that  sweet,  earnest  face  looking  into 
hers  scattered  her  fears,  for  there  was  no  guile  in  the  great 
eyes,  only  honest  frankness. 

Gathering  up  her  courage  she  proceeded  and  entering  the 
palazzo  she  ran  up  the  first  flight  and  calmly  rang  the  bell. 
She  was  promptly  ushered  into  a  room  where  sat  an  elderly 
lady  and  with  her  Fra  Felice  Estori. 

Donna  Bianca  received  her  most  graciously,  she  liked  to  meet 
Americans,  she  said,  and  Estori's  greeting  was  delightful.  He 
spoke  very  slowly  to  her  so  that  she  might  understand. 

Donna  Bianca  spoke  a  little  English  and  excellent  French 
and  she  translated  to  Estori  all  they  said. 

"And  do  you  not  understand  any  English  or  French?" 
Margaret  asked  him. 

"  A  little  French,  Signorina,  no  English,  but  I  know 
Latin  and  Greek ;  we  have  more  use  for  those  languages  in  my 
life." 

It  was  hard  to  associate  the  idea  of  monasticism  with  him, 
he  was  so  young  and  bright  and  merry ;  there  was  nothing  of 
the  poor,  humble  friar  in  his  proud  carriage  and  princely  man- 


The  Godmother's  Story  25 

ners.  That  he  knew  the  ways  of  the  world  was  evident, 
though  his  naivete  and  ingeniousness  showed  that  he  was  as 
yet  unspoiled  and  untouched  by  it. 

The  maid  brought  in  a  tray  of  cake  and  wine  and  said  some- 
thing to  her  mistress,  who  excused  herself  for  a  moment  and 
left  the  room. 

"  And  when  will  we  meet  again?  "  he  asked  presently. 

"  I  do  not  know,"  Margaret  answered. 

"  Signorina,"  he  began  hesitatingly,  "  will  you  take  a  walk 
with  me?  We  may  not  walk  together  in  the  city,  because  I 
wear  this,"  touching  his  habit;  "but  out  of  town  a  little,  on 
a  country  road,  it  is  all  right  and  there  we  may  talk.  Z  have 
so  much  to  say  to  you;  will  you  come?  " 

Margaret  considered.  Donna  Bianca's  footsteps  were  heard 
returning. 

"  Quick,  Signorina,  say  you  will.  Meet  me  at  the  Portico 
of  Santa  Maria  Maggiore  on  the  day  after  Christmas,  at  nine 
of  the  morning.  If  it  should  rain,  make  it  the  next  day  I  will 
be  there;  quick,  say  you  will  come?" 

"  I  will,"  she  said. 

As  Donna  Bianca  entered  Estori  rose.  He  was  obliged  to 
be  indoors  at  Ave  Maria  at  this  season,  he  explained,  but  the 
Signorina  Margherita  might  stay  longer  with  Donna  Bianca, 
it  was  still  an  hour  before  sunset.  He  bowed  low  as  he  took 
Margaret's  hand  to  wish  her  good  afternoon  and  when  he  had 
gone  it  seemed  as  if  all  the  brightness  had  gone  with  him.  She 
spoke  to  her  hostess  of  his  cheerful  ways  and  sunny  smile, 
saying  it  was  hard  for  her  to  realize  that  he  belonged  to  a 
religious  community. 

"  And  he  does  not  realize  it  himself  as  yet,"  the  lady  an- 
swered, "  but  some  day  he  will  awaken,  and  then  —  if  awak- 
ening means  regret,  I  shall  never  cease  to  grieve  that  I  was  not 
here  when  I  might  have  saved  him  from  the  first  step.  I  had 
not  seen  him  for  five  years.  I  might  have  known  there  was 
always  a  chance  of  his  doing  it,  living  for  so  long  in  that  en- 


26  A  Cry  of  Youth 

vironment  and  now  they  are  preparing  him  for  the  priest- 
hood." 

This  was  a  shock  to  Margaret.  She  had  not  given  a  thought 
to  the  fact  that  this  very  young  monk  might  eventually  become 
a  priest;  it  had  an  unpleasant  effect  upon  her,  but  she  only 
said,  "  Do  you  object  to  the  priesthood,  Madame?" 

"  Far  from  it.  I  honor  and  respect  the  priesthood  when  it 
is  entered  from  conviction  and  careful  consideration.  But  in 
this  case  it  is  nothing  but  environment  and  the  urging  of  his 
elders.  My  husband's  health  required  that  we  should  travel 
and  I  could  not  watch  over  my  godson  and  plan  for  him  as  I 
should  have  done  otherwise,"  and  Donna  Bianca  sighed. 

"  Has  he  no  family,  Madame?  "  asked  Margaret. 

"  He  has  a  mother  whom  he  never  sees.  When  he  was 
thirteen  years  old  she  married  again  and  her  husband,  the 
Marquese  Pallavicino,  instead  of  sending  him  properly  to  a  good 
boarding-school  put  him  in  charge  of  a  learned  Franciscan 
Father  (a  friend  of  his)  to  be  educated.  Being  placed  in  a 
monastery  at  an  impressionable  age,  I  believe  all  his  teaching 
and  training  were  directed  to  making  him  a  member  of  the 
Order." 

"  But  did  not  his  mother  object?  "  asked  Margaret. 

"  His  mother!  "  repeated  the  lady  scornfully;  "  she  soon  had 
other  children  and  forgot  him.  She  has  never  seen  him  since 
sending  him  from  home.  His  step-father,  the  Marquis,  visits 
him  occasionally  and  I  am  convinced  it  was  at  his  instigation 
that  Fra  Felice  took  the  step." 

"  Is  the  Marquis  very  religious?  " 

Donna  Bianca  smiled  satirically  and  replied:  "  He  had  his 
reasons,  Mademoiselle.  Cavaliere  Estori,  the  father  of  this 
boy,  left  a  fine  estate  South  of  Naples,  thousands  of  acres  of 
vineyards  and  olive  groves.  His  only  son,  coming  of  age  would 
inherit  it,  would  he  not  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Very  good.     The  only  son  is  thrust  into  a  convent  and 


The  Godmother's  Story          27, 

gradually  and  unsuspectingly  his  thoughts  and  ideas  led  into 
the  one  channel.  If  the  only  son  of  the  late  Cavaliere  Estori 
becomes  a  monk,  and  renounces  the  world  by  taking  the  vows 
of  rigid  poverty  laid  down  in  the  rule  of  St.  Francis  of  Assisi, 
the  handsome  villa  and  the  rich,  productive  lands  revert  to  his 
mother,  and  eventually  to  the  son  of  Marchesa  Pallavicino  by 
her  second  marriage." 

"Oh,  I  understand!"  exclaimed  Margaret.  "How  could 
she?  How  could  a  mother  allow  her  child  to  be  defrauded  of 
his  rights?" 

"  How  could  she,  indeed!  "  Donna  Bianca  waxed  indignant 
as  she  proceeded.  "  Rosalia  Estori  was  always  a  vain,  heart- 
less little  thing.  She  has  nothing  to  recommend  her  but  her 
beautiful  face.  She  is  said  to  be  the  daughter  of  a  famous 
Sicilian  brigand,  who  had  her  educated  and  chaperoned  by  a 
poor  but  noble  lady  of  Palermo  who  received  a  good  income 
for  the  launching  of  the  girl.  The  Cavaliere  Estori,  during 
his  army  life  in  Sicily,  met  her,  fell  madly  in  love  with  her 
beauty  and  married  her,  much  to  the  distress  of  his  relatives. 
The  Estoris  are  a  proud  race,  ma  chere;  the  present  head  of  the 
family  is  Prince  Francesco  Estori,  own  cousin  to  this  boy's 
father." 

It  was  evident  that  Donna  Bianca  liked  to  gossip,  so  Mar- 
garet encouraged  her  to  go  on  by  asking  whether  if  Fra  Felice 
had  stayed  in  the  world  he  would  not  have  inherited  the  title 
when  the  Prince  died  ? 

"  Oh,  no,  Fra  Felice  is  of  a  different  line ;  the  old  Prince 
has  a  married  son  and  lately  an  heir  has  been  born  to  him. 
The  Cavaliere  had  died  when  Fra  Felice  was  very  young  and 
since  then  the  Estoris  had  paid  him  little  attention,  not  caring 
at  all  for  his  mother,  though  they  had  the  grace  to  invite  him 
to  the  baptism  of  the  infant." 

"Is  the  Marchesa  really  so  beautiful?"  asked  Margaret, 
thinking  of  her  son's  good  looks. 

"  Yes,  she  is,  and  my  boy  is  the  image  of  her,  but  he  has 


28  A  Cry  of  Youth 

inherited   his   father's   refinement   and   elegance   of   manner." 

Donna  Bianca  rose  and  going  to  a  cabinet  brought  out  some 
photographs.  "  You  will  pardon  an  old  lady's  fondness  for  her 
godchild,  Mademoiselle,  but  I  believe  I  have  always  loved  him 
better  than  did  his  own  mother  and  his  father  was  one  of  my 
dearest  friends.  See,  here  he  is  at  three,  this  one  at  five,  and 
this  at  fifteen,"  and  she  put  the  photographs  in  Margaret's 
lap. 

"  Oh,  what  a  beautiful  child,"  Margaret  exclaimed. 

The  first  was  a  lovely  baby-face  framed  in  curls,  more  like 
a  cherub  than  anything  else,  the  second  a  stylish,  sturdy  little 
fellow  with  splendid  limbs,  dragging  a  toy  horse  by  a  string, 
and  the  third  rather  an  overgrown  school  boy,  but  with  a 
patrician  bearing  about  him  in  spite  of  "  the  awkward  age." 

Donna  Bianca's  eyes  filled  with  tears  as  she  handed  Margaret 
a  fourth,  "  and  this  is  the  last,"  she  said. 

It  had  the  same  perfect  features,  but  with  a  subdued,  serious 
look  in  the  eyes;  the  clustering  curls  were  cropped  closer  and 
showed  the  tonsure  in  their  midst  and  the  heavy  folds  of  the 
monk's  habit  fell  gracefully  about  the  youthful  form. 

"  Oh,  the  pity  of  it,"  sighed  Donna  Bianca,  wiping  her 
eyes,  "  it  is  such  an  awful  mistake." 

"  Do  not  take  it  so  to  heart,  madame,"  said  Margaret.  "  I 
am  sure  he  is  happy;  really  I  have  never  met  anyone  quite  so 
lighthearted  and  care-free.  I  cannot  associate  trouble  with 
Fra  Felice;  he  seems  all  brightness  and  sunshine,  almost  a 
different  creature  from  the  rest  of  us." 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  said  the  older  woman,  "  his  mother  im- 
presses people  in  just  that  way,  only  she  has  not  his  true,  loving 
heart." 

"  Does  his  mother  live  in  Rome?  " 

"  No,  abroad  most  of  the  time,  in  Paris  or  Vienna,  and  when 
they  come  to  Italy  they  stay  either  at  a  palace  belonging  to  the 
Marchese  up  north,  or  at  her  estate  near  Naples." 

Donna  Bianca  seemed  determined  to  tell  all  she  knew'  of  the 


The  Godmother's  Story          29 

family  of  Fra  Felice,  so  Margaret  ventured  on  another  ques- 
tion, "  How  does  he  feel  toward  his  step-father?  " 

"  Strange  as  it  may  appear,"  the  lady  answered,  "  he  seems 
on  very  good  terms  with  him.  The  Marchese  is  immensely 
clever;  it  was  he  who  visited  him  from  time  to  time,  always 
bringing  some  present  to  encourage  piety,  a  unique  rosary,  a 
handsome  crucifix,  or  valuable  books  on  religious  subjects,  and 
always  having  some  plausible  excuse  for  the  Marchesa  not  ac- 
companying him ;  the  latest  baby  was  too  young  for  her  to 
leave,  the  weather  was  uncertain,  his  little  brothers  and  sisters 
had  the  mumps  or  chicken-pox  and  so  it  would  not  be  wise  for 
the  boy  to  return  at  present.  Pallavicino  has  used  every  sort 
of  device  for  weaning  him  from  the  mother  and  all  home  ties 
and  did  his  best  to  cultivate  an  inclination  for  monastic  life." 

"  And  could  no  one  warn  him  that  the  Marquis  had  a  mo- 
tive for  doing  this?" 

"  As  I  have  said,  Mademoiselle,  I  was  away  from  Italy  for 
several  years  and  knew  nothing  until  it  was  over  and  since  I 
have  thought  it  useless.  He  believes  in  his  mother  and  step- 
father and  is  contented ;  why  shake  his  faith  in  them  and  cause 
him  unhappiness?  But  I  shall  always  maintain  that  a  cruel 
injustice  has  been  done." 

When  Margaret  found  herself  again  in  the  street  it  was  with 
rather  mixed  feelings.  She  had  enjoyed  her  visit  and  had  re- 
ceived a  most  cordial  invitation  to  repeat  it,  but  she  felt  some- 
what depressed.  Why  should  Donna  Bianca  borrow  trouble 
for  Felice  Estori,  who  was  not  in  the  least  troubled  for  him- 
self. She  would  give  anything  to  be  as  happy  as  he! 

The  next  time  Margaret  heard  the  young  monk  discussed 
it  was  by  a  stranger. 

On  Christmas  evening  Mrs.  Kotrell  and  the  girls  were  in- 
vited to  a  supper-party  at  the  Hotel  Excelsior  where  the  famous 
so-called  "  Sistine  Choir  "  were  to  give  a  concert. 

Madame  and  her  charges  created  no  little  sensation  as  they 
appeared,  all  more  or  less  richly  and  becomingly  gowned. 


30  A  Cry  of  Youth 

Their  host,  an  Italian  banker,  led  the  way  to  the  table  reserved 
for  them. 

Madame  seated  the  girls,  sorting  them  as  she  would  a  bunch 
of  flowers  for  a  color  scheme.  Margaret,  small  and  slender, 
with  dark  hair  and  white  skin,  in  a  pale  blue  perfect-fitting 
gown,  gave  the  azure ;  while  a  tall,  robust  blond  from  Chicago, 
dressed  in  pink  was  placed  beside  her. 

In  the  supper-room  was  an  immense  Christmas  tree  and  on 
its  topmost  branch  a  great  electrical  star.  Back  of  this  was  a 
curtain  of  smilax  and  behind  it  were  installed  the  world- 
renowned  singers.  The  room  was  full  of  women  in  beautiful 
costumes  and  men  in  evening  dress,  and  it  was  interesting  to 
pick  out  the  different  nationalities  represented.  An  Anglican 
clergyman  and  his  family  occupied  a  table  near  by  and  at  another 
a  Russian  Princess  sat  smoking  a  cigarette. 

At  a  table  directly  opposite  Margaret  sat  a  party  of  men 
only ;  wine  was  flowing  freely  and  they  seemed  to  be  thoroughly 
enjoying  themselves.  They  were  speaking  French,  though 
they  were  not  all  of  that  nationality.  One  in  particular  Mar- 
garet noticed.  He  had  deep-set  blue  eyes,  and  a  blond  beard; 
his  face  was  familiar  and  it  puzzled  her.  When  had  she  seen 
him  before?  , 

There  was  the  throb  of  a  violin  from  behind  the  smilax  cur- 
tain; some  bars  were  struck  on  the  piano  by  a  masterly  hand,  a 
few  notes  of  a  harp  floated  through  the  greenery  and  then  came 
a  voice.  The  noisy  room  suddenly  grew  quiet.  The  voice 
rose,  full,  strong  and  beautiful.  Some  of  the  guests  consulted 
their  programmes  and  saw  that  the  first  number  was  "  The 
Holy  Night."  With  a  depth  of  sweetness  unspeakable,  the 
singer  proceeded;  soft  and  low  were  his  notes,  then  power- 
ful, rich  and  mellow.  There  was  a  pathos  and  devotional 
quality  in  his  tones  that  no  woman's  voice,  were  she  the 
greatest  songstress  the  world  has  ever  known,  could  attain. 
Breathless  and  awe-struck  the  gay  assemblage  listened  in  si- 
lence. The  hush  was  so  complete  that  between  the  ginger's 


The  Godmother  s  Story          31 

pauses  one  could  hear  the  clock  tick.  A  sob  of  the  violin,  one 
soft  chord  on  the  piano  and  the  marvellous  voice  had  ceased. 

The  listeners  burst  into  a  storm  of  applause  — " Bravo" 
"  Bravissimo"  "Bravo!"  There  were  present  those  who  had 
heard  the  finest  singers  in  every  capital  of  the  world,  but  all 
agreed  they  had  never  heard  the  equal  of  this  voice.  The  male 
soprano  of  Rome  is  without  a  rival.  The  laughing  and  talk- 
ing began  again  amid  the  clicking  wine  glasses. 

One  of  the  party  of  men  at  the  table  opposite  was  casting 
admiring  glances  at  the  Chicago  girl  in  pink.  He  was  calling 
her  a  "  beauty,"  a  "  Juno,"  a  "  rose." 

"A  dairy-maid,"  answered  the  blond  man  whom  Margaret 
had  observed,  "  merely  a  fine  specimen  of  young  womanhood 
inclining  to  the  Amazon  type.  Fine  strength  there,  I  grant 
you,  looks  as  if  she  might  do  the  weekly  washing  of  the  Quirinal 
and  do  it  well;  the  small,  dainty  one  in  blue  is  far  more  at- 
tractive than  she." 

"  What,  that  little  pale  thing  beside  her?  " 

"  Yes,"  answered  the  blond  man. 

"  What  can  you  see  in  her  ?  "  questioned  his  companion. 

"  A  great  deal." 

ff    T>  i  1     6)  3> 

rar  example? 

"  For  example  ?  Well,  there  is  a  patrician  grace  about  her 
that  no  other  demoiselle  among  them  possesses." 

"  But  surely,  Fauvel,  you  see  no  beauty  from  an  artistic 
standpoint?  " 

"  Ah,  but  I  do,"  replied  the  blond  called  Fauvel;  "  although 
she  is  slight  she  is  all  curves;  her  lines  are  perfect  and  her 
eyebrows  are  arched  in  a  fine  black  thread;  her  skin  is  like  a 
pearl  in  its  delicacy,  though  I  should  judge  she  has  as  splendid 
health  as  the  '  Juno.'  I  have  seen  her  before,  wandering  alone 
on  the  Palatine.  It  is  a  face  one  does  not  forget.  That 
little  girl  is  not  happy." 

"Are  you  a  mind-reader,  Fauvel?" 

"  No,  but,  I  am  a  reader  of  faces.     I  have  studied  a  thou- 


32  A  Cry  of  Youth 

sand  different  expressions;  it  is  my  profession.  Hers  is  a  face 
that  may  not  appeal  to  the  average  man,  but  one  day  some  man 
will  worship  her  madly.  I  say  she  is  destined  to  have  a  his- 
tory." 

"  Margaret,"  said  the  Chicago  girl  in  an  undertone,  "  turn 
round,  do  you  see  that  man  with  the  yellow,  hair  and  beard? 
He  has  been  looking  at  you  hard,  do  you  know  him  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Margaret,  glancing  again  at  the  one  whose  face 
had  puzzled  her,  "  I  have  seen  him  somewhere,  but  I  cannot 
remember." 

"  But  I  know  where  I  have  seen  him,"  the  other  went  on, 
"  at  the  Rospigliosi  Gallery,  making  a  copy  of  the  Aurora." 

Then  like  a  flash  Margaret  remembered  him  as  the  artist  to 
whom  she  had  spoken  the  day  she  met  Fra  Felice.  He  had 
advised  her  to  go  up  the  hill  and  see  the  old  monastery  at  the 
top.  Indirectly  he  was  responsible  for  the  meeting. 

Happy,  handsome,  bright  Fra  Felice!  He  was  saying  his 
prayers  on  the  cold  stones  of  the  dark  chapel  and  she  thought 
of  what  Donna  Bianca  had  told  her  of  his  being  tricked  out  of 
his  inheritance.  At  that  moment  she  looked  up  and  met  the 
gaze  of  the  blond  artist  full  upon  her,  but  almost  immediately 
he  turned  to  respond  to  some  remarks  of  one  of  his  companions. 

"  No,  I  have  not  secured  him  as  yet,"  he  was  saying,  "  but 
when  I  do  he  will  make  my  fame.  Only  once  in  a  thousand 
years  is  such  perfection  of  form  and  feature  moulded  into  flesh 
and  blood.  I  shall  paint  him  as  Narcissus,  St.  Sebastian,  as 
Adonis,  and  best  of  all  in  his  own  true  character,  for  he  is  a 
picture  in  himself." 

"  Where  did  you  find  him,  Fauvel?  "  asked  an  Italian  in  the 
party,  whom  Margaret  took  also  for  an  artist.  "  Per  Bacco! 
I  will  hunt  the  Piazzo  di  Spagna  every  day  myself." 

"  You  will  never  find  this  one  lounging  on  the  Spanish  Steps, 
after  the  manner  of  models,  I  can  assure  you." 

Margaret,  pretending  to  read  her  program,  listened  to  all 
they  were  saying. 


The  Godmother's  Story          33 

"  What  is  he,  Fauvel  ?  "  asked  another. 

"  An  aristocrat  to  begin  with.  But  you  will  none  of  you  get 
him.  I  had  speech  with  him  once,  and  I  hinted  —  I  found 
him  farouche,  shy,  almost  insulted.  But  I  mean  to  have  him. 
I  shall  go  cautiously  to  work,  make  friends  with  him  —  and 
then  —  " 

"Where  did  you  first  see  him,  at  least  tell  us  that?  " 

The  artist  did  not  answer,  but  lifted  his  glass  and  gazed  at 
the  electric  star  through  the  clear  wine;  he  seemed  lost  in 
thought. 

"What  is  the  matter,  Fauvel?"  questioned  one  of  them 
after  a  pause ;  "  we  are  impatient  to  hear  where  you  first  met 
this  coveted  model;  have  you  forgotten  him?" 

"  I  have  not  forgotten  him,"  he  replied;  "  I  am  pitying  him. 
I  met  him  first  by  the  Arch  of  Titus." 

The  program  in  Margaret's  hand  fluttered  to  the  floor.  She 
realized  that  they  were  speaking  of  Fra  Felice  Estori.  The 
tuning  of  the  instruments  behind  the  smilax  curtain  announced 
the  approach  of  the  second  selection.  The  Italian  refilled  the 
glasses  of  his  friends  and  raising  his  own  gave  the  toast,  "  To 
the  mysterious  model  of  Meurice  Fauvel." 

"  Saluti,"  "  Buona  Festa"  "  Buon  Natale,"  echoed  the  oth- 
ers and  their  glasses  clinked  as  the  great  room  became  again 
silent. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  STREET  OF  THE  SERPENTS 

He  wears  the  rose  of  youth  upon  him. 

SHAKESPEARE. 

The  day  Margaret  had  left  Donna  Bianca's  house,  having 
learned  that  the  young  Franciscan  was  preparing  to  be  a  priest, 
she  had  determined  to  have  nothing  further  to  do  with  him ;  but 
when  she  had  heard  the  artist  speak  of  his  unusual  beauty  she 
was  filled  with  an  uncontrollable  desire  to  see  him  again;  so 
the  next  morning,  making  some  pretext  to  Madame  for  an 
early  walk,  she  started  out  to  meet  him  "  just  once  more." 

He  had  said  he  would  wait  for  her  at  the  portico  of  Santa 
Maria  Maggiore,  and  she  had  come  by  the  other  door  so  was 
obliged  to  go  through  the  chuich.  Mass  was  being  said  in  the 
Borghese  Chapel. 

As  she  passed  she  knelt  for  a  moment;  something  seemed  to 
tell  her  to  turn  back. 

"  What  am  I  doing?  "  she  thought,  "  running  out  deceitfully 
to  meet  a  monk  when  I  only  want  to  see  his  beautiful  face;  " 
and  she  half  rose,  "  ah  —  but  I  promised  him  I'd  be  here,"  and 
she  sank  down  again. 

"  This  is  not  a  safe  friendship,"  said  a  voice,  "  you  know  it, 
and  he  knows  it." 

"  I  am  so  lonely,"  she  pleaded  mentally,  "  and  I  can  be  care- 
ful." 

"  Perhaps  he  cannot,"  it  whispered ;  "  remember  he  is  a  man 
set  apart  — "  Some  instinct  was  telling  her  that  she  was 
treading  on  dangerous  sands,  and  yet  the  very  fact  that  she  felt 
danger  brought  with  it  a  sort  of  wild  delight  hitherto  unknown, 
so  she  stifled  the  voice  and  rising  impatiently  walked  the  length 
of  the  vast  Basilica  and  passed  out  at  the  Grand  Porticd. 

34 


The  Street  of  the  Serpents       35 

At  first  she  did  not  see  him,  and  it  was  a  momentary  relief. 
She  would  be  almost  glad  should  he  fail  to  be  there.  Then 
she  perceived  a  brown  habit  half  hidden  behind  one  of  the  col- 
umns, and  her  heart  fluttered  at  the  sight  of  it.  She  went 
towards  him. 

"  Buon  ffiorno,  Signorina,"  he  said  gayly,  taking  her  hand, 
"  ah,  this  is  pleasure  indeed!  " 

Margaret  felt  the  same  magnetic  thrill  go  through  her  that 
she  had  experienced  when  he  had  stolen  up  and  knelt  beside 
her  in  the  Gesu. 

As  she  looked  at  him  he  made  her  think  of  one  of  his  own  big 
red  roses.  The  rich  crimson  had  mounted  to  his  cheeks,  and  his 
wonderful  yellow-brown  eyes  were  wide  open  with  the  happiest 
expression.  His  habit  was  immaculate,  the  cords  around  his 
waist  of  snowy  whiteness,  and  the  small  black  cap  set  on  his 
head  with  a  jaunty  air. 

"  Come,  Signorina,"  he  hurriedly  whispered,  "  we  will  go  to 
the  house  of  a  donnina  vecchia,  she  is  poor  but  she  is  very  good ; 
there  we  may  talk  at  our  leisure.  I  will  go  first  and  you  fol- 
low. Andiamo." 

"  Are  you  sure  it's  all  right  for  me  to  go  ?  " 

"  Certainly,  come." 

"Where  does  she  live?" 

"  In  the  Via  dei  Serpenti." 

Margaret  had  not  the  least  idea  where  the  Street  of  the 
Serpents  might  be,  and  a  memory  of  the  Serpent  tempting  Eve 
to  sin  was  in  her  mind  as  she  walked  on  for  several  blocks  behind 
him.  At  length  he  turned  into  a  narrow  street  with  cheap 
little  shops  on  either  side,  and  suddenly  disappeared  in  a  gloomy 
archway.  Margaret  was  a  trifle  uneasy.  Yet  as  she  had  come 
so  far  she  would  not  stop  now.  A  little  bent  woman  was  stand- 
ing in  front  of  an  open  door,  so  wrinkled  and  wizened  that 
Margaret  thought  she  must  be  a  hundred  years  old.  She  wore 
a  red  petticoat  and  green  bodice,  her  head  was  tied  up  in  a 
purple  and  white  cotton  handkerchief  and  in  her  ears  hung 


36  A  Cry  of  Youth 

long  gold  hoops.  She  curtsied.  "  This  way,  Signorina,"  she 
said. 

Coming  in  from  the  bright  sunshine  Margaret  could  scarcely 
tell  where  she  was  going.  The  woman  stood  aside  and  mo- 
tioned her  to  enter  and  then  she  felt  Estori's  hand  take  hers 
and  found  herself  in  a  room  where  the  dame  evidently  slept  and 
cooked  and  sewed  and  prayed,  though  everything  was  as  neat  as 
possible. 

"  Assunta,"  said  Estori,  raising  his  voice,  "  this  is  the  young 
lady  who  sent  you  the  twenty-five  lire  for  Christmas." 

"  Grazie  tante,  Signorina,"  the  old  woman  replied,  curtsy- 
ing again.  "  Fra  Felice  is  so  good,  so  kind.  Whenever  I  do 
not  have  my  rent  he  brings  it  to  me  and  always  he  says  '  the 
angels  sent  it.'  I  think  I  see  one  of  his  '  angels '  now.  He 
is  ffentilissimo,  Fra  Felice." 

Estori  turned  to  Margaret.  "  Do  you  not  recollect,  Sig- 
norina, that  you  gave  me  an  offering  for  the  poor?  This 
poveretta  needed  help  and  I  brought  it  to  her."  Then  speak- 
ing lower,  "  she  is  deaf,  so  we  may  talk  as  if  she  were  not 
here." 

The  old  woman  made  another  curtsy  and  pointed  to  two 
hair  cloth  chairs  set  straight  back  against  the  wall. 

"  I  regret,  Signorina,"  he  continued,  as  they  seated  them- 
selves, "  that  I  have  no  better  place  to  bring  you.  It  would 
not  look  well  for  us  to  go  to  a  hotel  parlor  and  at  Donna 
Bianca's  we  would  not  be  alone." 

"  I  do  not  mind  the  place,"  Margaret  said.  "  I  like  to  see 
different  classes  and  how  they  live."  She  felt  more  at  ease; 
the  presence  of  the  old  woman  was  reassuring.  Assunta  had 
turned  her  back  to  them  and  was  kneading  her  black  bread. 

"  Is  it  against  the  rule  of  your  Order  for  you  to  walk  with 
friends  in  the  street?  "  Margaret  asked. 

He  laughed  softly,  taking  the  long  rosary  at  his  side  and 
swinging  it  to  and  fro. 

"Is  it?"  she  insisted. 


The  Street  of  the  Serpents        37 

There  was  a  roguish  twinkle  in  his  eyes,  like  a  naughty 
child's,  as  he  replied,  "  It  is  part  of  the  rule  of  my  Order  to  be 
kind  always  to  the  friendless." 

Margaret  looked  at  him.  Was  he  a  young  knave,  this  Fran- 
ciscan friar,  with  his  St.  Sebastian  face,  or  was  it  only  ingenu- 
ousness ?  She  concluded  it  was  the  latter. 

"  Would  your  Father  Superior  object  to  your  walking  with 
me?  "  she  asked  again. 

"  My  Father  Superior  loves  me  well,"  he  answered.  "  I 
am  very  dear  to  him.  He  is  pleased  with  all  I  do."  He  burst 
into  merry  laughter  that  was  music  to  her  ears. 

She  continued  to  question:  "  How  old  are  you?" 

"  I  was  twenty-two  in  November,  on  the  Feast  of  Saint  An- 
drea." 

"  Then  you  are  four  years  older  than  I."  She  sighed ;  she 
felt  very  old,  almost  out  of  her  teens,  and  she  was  beginning 
to  learn  the  burden  of  life. 

"  Why  are  you  so  sad,.  Signorina  ?  "  he  asked  gently.  "  Won't 
you  tell  me  ?  "  No  answer.  "  Please  tell  me." 

The  mischievous  look  had  gone  and  his  tone  was  full  of  ear- 
nest concern. 

"  I  am  so  unhappy  where  I  live,"  Margaret  faltered,  "  but  I 
do  not  want  to  go  home  to  be  a  drag  on  my  mother.  She  has 
to  earn  her  own  living  and  so  must  I." 

Fra  Felice  looked  puzzled.  The  Signorina  Americana  had 
no  appearance  of  poverty  with  her  handsome  fur  coat  and  muff, 
and  modish  hat  and  boots,  and  yet  her  little  face  had  an  un- 
mistakably worried,  pitiful  expression. 

"  Senta,"  he  began  after  a  moment's  thought,  "  the  Nuns 
at  the  Trinita  often  find  positions  for  young  ladies.  A  friend 
of  Donna  Bianca  has  applied  there  for  some  lady  who  speaks 
good  English  to  be  the  companion  of  her  granddaughter.  Do 
you  know  the  Religious  of  the  Sacred  Heart?  " 

"  Yes,"  Margaret  answered  eagerly,  "  I  know  an  English 
Nun.  I  brought  a  letter  to  her  from  New  York  —  " 


38  A  Cry  of  Youth 

"  Go  see  her  at  once,  Signorina,"  he  urged.  "  Tell  her 
what  you  have  told  me,  and  I  will  ask  Donna  Bianca  to  speak 
to  the  Contessa  Melzi,  for  that  is  her  name.  In  this  way  you 
could  leave  Casa  Kotrell  and  still  remain  in  Rome;  and  the 
Contessa  will  give  you  a  good  stipendo.  Ecco!  Is  not  this  a 
great  plan  ?  " 

Margaret's  face  brightened.  What  if  she  could  do  this! 
And  receive  a  salary  for  her  services!  With  Madame  she  was 
getting  nothing  but  her  board.  But  would  her  mother  let  her 
go?  She  had  been  put  under  the  care  of  Mrs.  Kotrell  — 
She  would  cable  for  her  mother's  consent.  And  she  talked  on, 
growing  more  confidential  while  he  helped  her  express  herself 
in  correct  Italian.  At  last  she  remarked,  "  Don't  you  think  we 
ought  to  be  going,  Fra  Felice  ?  " 

"  Do  not  call  me  that,  Signorina,"  he  began.  "  Leone  is  my 
baptismal  name.  Fra  Felice  is  merely  my  monastic  name. 
You  remind  me  of  the  days  in  my  mother's  house,  before  I 
wore  this,"  touching  his  habit,  "  when  I  was  free,  when  I 
lived  in  the  world  as  you  do  and  besides  —  "  he  flushed  as 
he  hesitated  —  "I  call  you  '  Margherita  '  in  my  prayers." 

"Call  me  Margherita  always,"  she  said  quickly;  "I  shall 
like  it,  Leone,"  and  Margaret  flushed  also  as  she  pronounced 
the  name.  Then  she  rose,  thanking  the  old  woman  for  her 
hospitality,  and  left  first,  a  new-born  hope  in  her  heart  so 
anxious  was  she  to  cut  loose  from  her  present  surroundings,  and 
feeling  that  same  strange  happiness  that  always  attended  a  meet- 
ing with  Fra  Felice  —  no,  Leone  Estori. 

And  fate  worked  in  with  Margaret's  desires.  She  had  found 
an  early  opportunity  to  go  to  the  Convent  of  the  Trinita  where 
the  English  nun  had  arranged  a  meeting  for  her  with  the  Con- 
tessa Melzi. 

The  nun  had  vouched  that  Miss  Randolph  belonged  to  one 
of  the  best  families  in  the  United  States,  that  her  English  was 
perfect,  and  that  she  was  of  their  own  faith ;  all  of  which  made 
a  most  favorable  impression  upon  the  Contessa,  who  wanted 


The  Street  of  the  Serpents        39 

some  very  young  person  to  amuse  her  little  invalid  grand-daugh- 
ter, and  speak  English  to  her.  The  child  had  been  sent  to  her 
grandmother  to  be  under  the  care  of  a  celebrated  Roman  spe- 
cialist for  three  months  and  the  Contessa  would  give  one  hun- 
dred lire  a  month. 

All  that  was  wanting  was  her  mother's  consent.  It  came 
promptly,  for  Mrs.  Randolph  had  felt  secure  in  the  guidance  of 
the  Religious  of  the  Sacred  Heart. 

Margaret's  only  regret  was  parting  with  dear,  sweet-tempered 
Giacinta.  But  Giacinta  promised  she  would  come  to  see  her. 

So  the  first  of  the  year  found  Margaret  installed  in  the  stiff, 
antiquated  household  of  the  Contessa  Melzi,  beginning  her 
fledgling  flight  for  independence. 


CHAPTER   V 

THE  ANCIENT  WINE  CELLAR 

Till  now  thy  soul  has  been  all  bright  and  gay: 
Bid  it  awake  and  look  at  grief  to-day. 

PROCTOR. 

One  morning  in  March,  Fra  Felice  Estori  was  at  work  among 
his  rose  bushes  in  the  old  monastery  garden.  It  boasted  of  the 
tallest  palm  tree  in  all  Rome,  had  a  splendid  view  of  the  Colos- 
seum, and  the  extraordinarily  beautiful  red  roses  with  their  rare 
perfume  had  lately  become  its  great  pride.  The  "  Fra  Felice  " 
roses  were  the  fashionable  flower  of  the  season,  having  first  risen 
to  fame  in  the  home  of  that  conservative  old  nobleman,  Prince 
Estori. 

Fra  Felice  having  raked,  pruned,  and  cut  to  his  satisfaction, 
put  away  his  tools  and  sat  down  upon  a  stone  bench  to  engage 
in  another  task. 

There  was  a  real  breath  of  spring  in  the  air,  and  pansies 
near  by  had  blossomed  forth,  big  and  velvety.  On  the  bench 
beside  him  was  a  heavy  altar  missal.  The  book  was  old  and 
dilapidated ;  a  collector  would  have  prized  it  highly.  Fra  Felice 
had  found  it  tucked  away  on  a  dusty  shelf  of  the  brotherhood 
library,  and  it  served  his  purpose.  It  was  opened  at  about  the 
center  and  on  one  of  its  pages  he  was  placing  some  pansies  he 
had  just  gathered.  There  was  a  yellow,  a  purple,  and  a  black 
one.  They  were  to  be  put  into  his  next  letter  to  the  Signorina 
Margherita  Randolph. 

He  had  not  seen  her  alone  since  she  had  gone  to  live  with  the 
Contessa  Melzi.  He  had  met  her  one  afternoon  while  calling 
upon  Donna  Bianca  Salviate,  and  occasionally  while  walking 
in  the  street  with  her  little  charge,  when  they  were  always 
attended  by  an  elderly  servant;  but  a  correspondence  had  been 
kept  up  between  them  in  which  pressed  flowers  played  a  part. 

40 


The  Ancient  Wine  Cellar        41 

This  Italian  sentiment  leaves  it  to  the  flower  to  tell  more  than 
is  prudent  to  put  on  paper. 

Contrary  to  the  rule  of  most  religious  houses,  this  brother- 
hood of  Minor  Franciscans  usually  enjoyed  the  privilege  of  re- 
ceiving their  mail  personally. 

A  lay-brother  was  hastening  down  the  path  to  where  Fra 
Felice  was  seated.  The  latter,  seeing  his  approach,  closed  the 
book  wherein  he  had  placed  the  flowers  and  became  intent  on 
the  Latin  script  of  another  page. 

"  Fra  Felice,"  said  the  brother,  stopping  in  front  of  him, 
"  Father  Superior  wishes  to  speak  with  you.  He  waits  for  you 
in  St.  Francis'  hall." 

"  Va  bene,"  *  he  answered,  rising.  "I  will  go  at  once,  Fra 
Marco." 

The  large  hall  was  oblong;  its  flooring  of  cement  and 
its  arched  ceiling,  frescoed  with  scenes  in  the  life  of  St. 
Francis,  reached  down  the  walls  until  met  by  a  high  wood- 
work that  formed  a  back  for  the  stall  seats  that  ran  round 
three  sides  of  the  room.  The  high  grated  windows  showed 
nothing  but  the  trees  and  sky.  Opposite  the  door  was  a  dais 
raised  two  steps  above  the  floor  and  on  it  a  massive  high-backed 
chair,  carved  at  the  top  in  the  shape  of  a  cross.  In  this  sat 
the  Father  Superior,  before  a  table,  engaged  in  looking  over 
some  papers  and  pamphlets. 

When  a  few  of  young  Estori's  long  strides  brought  him  across 
the  room,  the  Superior  glanced  up  from  a  paper  he  was  perus- 
ing. "  Ah,  Fra  Felice,"  said  he,  "  one  moment."  He  finished 
reading,  put  the  paper  down  and  then  taking  up  a  letter,  said: 
"  Who  is  this,  my  son,  that  writes  to  you?  " 

Fra  Felice  saw  it  was  the  handwriting  of  Margaret  Randolph, 
and  the  color  left  his  face ;  the  seal  was  as  yet  unbroken. 

"  It  is  a  Signorina  Americana,  Reverend  Father,"  he  an- 
swered. 

"  Ah,  where  did  you  meet  this  lady?  " 

*  Very  well. 


42  A  Cry  of  Youth 

"  She  is  a  friend  of  my  esteemed  godmother,  the  Donna  Bi- 
anca  Salviate,  Reverendissimo." 

The  Father  Superior  took  a  paper  knife  from  the  table  and 
inserted  it  under  the  edge  of  the  envelope.  Fra  Felice's  heart 
stood  still  —  was  he  going  to  read  the  letter  ? 

"  This  Signorina  is  very  charitable,"  Fra  Felice  continued 
nervously,  as  the  knife  slit  the  paper;  "she  sends  me  alms  for 
the  poor." 

The  Father  Superior  laid  down  the  paper-cutter  and  took 
the  letter  from  its  envelope.  A  whiff  of  violet  sachet  was  per- 
ceptible as  he  did  so  and  a  shower  of  rose  leaves  fell  upon  the 
table.  The  color  rushed  back  to  the  face  of  Fra  Felice  in  a 
crimson  flush.  A  curious  smile  played  over  the  features  of  the 
old  monk,  as  he  gathered  up  the  pink  petals  as  best  he  could 
and  restored  them  to  the  letter. 

"  Does  she  write  you  often,  this  Signorina  Americana,  eh, 
Felice?" 

"  No,  no,  Reverendissimo." 

His  heart  was  now  beating  so  loudly  that  he  felt  sure  the 
Father  Superior  must  hear  it.  The  Father  looked  at  him  and 
saw  the  pleading,  anxious  eyes  fixed  upon  the  bit  of  perfumed 
paper  in  his  hand.  Perhaps  he  remembered  his  own  youth, 
perhaps  he  thought  of  an  unsuspecting  boy  who  had  been  his 
pupil,  of  an  unnatural  mother  and  a  designing  Marchese,  for 
he  slipped  the  sheet  back  in  its  envelope  and  held  it  out  to  him. 

"  Here  is  your  letter,  my  son;  go  in  peace." 

"  Thank  you,  thank  you,  my  Father,"  he  cried,  eagerly 
grasping  it;  then,  bending  on  one  knee,  he  kissed  the  hand  of 
the  Superior  and  fled  from  the  room  back  into  the  sunshine  of 
the  garden  and  sank  down  upon  the  stone  seat  beside  the  pansy 
bed. 

Oh,  how  fortunate  that  the  letter  had  not  been  read!  He 
did  not  want  any  one  to  smile  at  the  peculiar  Italian  of  "  Mar- 
gherita."  He  understood  all  she  tried  to  say,  and,  besides, 
there  might  be  some  reference  to  their  former  meetings.  There 


The  Ancient  Wine  Cellar        43 

was  no  one  near;  he  pressed  it  to  his  lips  and  settled  down  to 
the  delight  of  reading  it. 

It  told  that  she  was  well  and  enjoyed  his  letters  so  much. 
They  were  like  sunbeams  in  the  dark,  gloomy  Casa  Melzi  where 
everybody  was  old;  the  contessa,  the  footmen,  the  maids,  even 
the  dogs  were  gray-whiskered  —  every  one  except  Enrichetta, 
who  was  only  a  child.  But  she  would  not  be  there  much 
longer,  and  then  perhaps  they  could  meet  again  when  she  was 
free.  The  contessa  had  a  friend  in  Naples  who  wanted  a  com- 
panion to  go  with  her  to  Switzerland  in  the  summer,  and  had 
recommended  herself.  If  she  could  find  something  to  do  during 
May  and  June  she  might  be  able"  to  stay  in  Europe ;  if  not,  she 
would  have  to  go  home.  Did  he  know  of  any  one  who  would 
like  to  take  English  lessons? 

"  You  found  me  this  position,"  she  wrote ;  "  perhaps  you  may 
hear  of  something  later.  I  will  never  forget  your  kindness  and 
friendship,  and  what  it  has  been  to  me  so  far  away  from  my 
own  country ;  for  no  one  cares  for  me  here,  or  prays  for  me  but 
you.  Sometimes  I  feel  that  I  must  have  known  you  in  another 
existence,  for  you  are  not  like  a  stranger;  and  when  I  think  of 
you  everything  that  is  hard  to  bear  fades  away,  and  my  spirit 
goes  back  to  the  Arch  of  Titus,  and  up  the  road  between  the 
walls,  and  up  and  up  —  and  I  see  only  you." 

He  folded  the  letter  with  a  deep  sigh  and  tucked  it  away  out 
of  sight.  If  his  letters  were  like  sunbeams  to  her,  hers  to  him 
were  like  drops  of  pearls! 

This  correspondence  with  the  American  girl  was  the  most 
exciting  and  interesting  episode  of  his  life.  He  would  rather 
be  dead  than  have  it  cease  and  now  the  Padre-reverendissimo  * 
had  taken  notice  of  it  and  would  be  on  the  lookout  for  another 
letter  from  the  Signorina.  He  might  open  the  next  one  and 
read  it,  or,  worse  still,  not  give  it  to  him  at  all,  and  Margherita 
would  think  he  did  not  wish  to  answer  and  never  write 
again. 

*  Most  Reverend  Father. 


44  A  Cry  of  Youth 

How  could  he  prevent  such  a  thing?  It  was  very  likely  — 
it  was  more  than  likely.  If  only  those  treasured  rose  leaves 
had  not  fallen  out,  the  letter  itself  might  have  been  forgotten. 
What  could  be  done?  He  knitted  his  black  eyebrows,  put  his 
hand  to  his  forehead,  and  tried  to  think.  He  could  tell  the 
Signorina  to  write  in  care  of  Donna  Bianca  and  he  would  go 
for  the  letter;  but  she  might  not  like  to  do  this,  nor  Donna 
Bianca  approve,  and  he  must  send  an  answer  to-night.  Ah,  an 
idea!  He  rose  quickly,  went  into  the  house,  up  a  flight  of 
stairs,  down  a  corridor  and  out  of  the  same  door  through  which 
he  had  come  the  day  he  met  the  Signorina  crying  all  alone  at 
the  top  of  the  avenue  of  eucalyptus  trees. 

It  was  nearing  the  hour  for  the  noon-day  mail  to  arrive  at 
the  convent  and  Jacopo,  the  good-natured  postman,  would  soon 
be  due.  He  must  be  waylaid  and  instructed.  Around  the  cor- 
ner, farther  down  the  hill,  was  an  old  chestnut  tree  with  a 
small  knothole  in  the  trunk  a  few  feet  from  the  ground,  which 
faced  toward  the  c6nvent  wall  and  was  not  noticeable  from  the 
path.  Any  letter  that  came  for  him  from  Margherita  he  would 
tell  Jacopo  to  slip  into  this  knothole;  and  when  a  favorable 
opportunity  presented  he  would  go  and  take  it  out.  In  this  way 
he  could  make  sure  that  her  letters  would  not  be  intercepted, 
and  it  would  spare  the  Father  Superior  any  further  annoyance 
regarding  this  correspondence. 

He  took  some  coins  from  his  pocket  and  counted  them,  fifty 
centessimi;  *  that  would  do  for  Jacopo  to  begin  with  and  keep 
him  from  chattering  to  the  brothers.  He  walked  on,  well 
pleased  with  this  arrangement.  He  would  see  that  the  hole  in 
the  tree  was  free,  that  no  bird  or  squirrel  had  made  a  home 
there,  and  then  he  would  wait  for  the  postman.  On  turning 
the  corner  he  saw  to  his  dismay  that  an  artist  had  settled  him- 
self, leaning  back  on  his  camp-stool  against  the  very  tree  he  had 
singled  out  for  his  private  postoffice.  He  had  seen  this  artist 
once  before,  last  winter,  and  had  spoken  to  him.  As  he  ap- 

•Ten  cents. 


The  Ancient  Wine  Cellar        45 

preached,  the  artist  looked  up  from  his  work  and  nodded  good 
day  in  a  friendly  manner. 

"  I  have  come  again  to  finish  this  sketch,"  he  said ;  "  how 
have  you  been  all  this  time,  Fra  Felice?  " 

Replying  politely,  he  added :  "  You  remember  my  name,  I 
see." 

"  I  have  remembered  something  more.  I  remember  your 
bright  smile.  I've  been  at  work  here  for  two  hours,"  he  con- 
tinued, "  and  I've  been  hoping  you  might  pass." 

"  Why,  Signer  artista?  " 

"  Because  you  have  been  in  my  thoughts  very  often  since  that 
cold  day  last  December  when  I  stopped  you  at  the  Arch  of 
Titus  and  asked  you  to  direct  me  to  the  old  monastery  on  the 
Palatine;  do  you  remember?"  Estori  nodded.  "And  you 
said  you  belonged  there  yourself,  and  we  walked  up  the  hill 
together,  do  you  remember  that  ?  " 

"Yes,  Signore." 

"  Shortly  after  Christmas  I  was  called  to  Perugia  by  the 
death  of  a  friend.  He  left  me  some  property  back  in  the  Um- 
brian  mountains.  There  was  a  great  deal  to  be  attended  to, 
and  I  was  detained  there  until  last  week.  Ever  been  up  in  that 
part  of  the  country?  " 

"  No,"  Estori  answered,  a  trifle  impatiently. 

"  Well,"  said  the  artist,  "  I  have  taken  the  very  first  chance 
since  my  return  to  come  out  here  and  finish  my  sketch  of  this 
old  doorway  and  to  see  you." 

"  To  see  me,  Signor  artista,  and  why?  " 

"  Because  I  would  like  to  paint  you." 

Estori  moved  off  quickly  from  where  he  stood  beside  him. 
"  Oh,  no,  no,"  he  said ;  "  that  could  not  be." 

"Why  not?" 

"  I  could  not  allow  it.  You  forget,  Signore,  my  calling.  I 
have  many  duties ;  also  "  —  and  he  held  his  head  proudly  —  "I 
am  no  artist's  model." 

"  Of  course  you  are  not,  in  the  ordinary  sense  of  the  term, 


46  A  Cry  of  Youth 

but  you  are  nature's  model.  Do  you  know,  Fra  Felice,"  he 
continued,  giving  the  finishing  touches  to  his  work,  "  that  na- 
ture has  been  very  lavish  to  you  ?  " 

"Nonsense!" 

"  Nonsense  ?  "  interrogated  the  artist.  "  Look  into  the  first 
mirror  in  any  shop  window  the  next  time  you  go  to  town." 

Estori  flushed.  He  was  half  embarrassed  and  half  angry. 
No  one  had  ever  spoken  to  him  so  personally  before.  He  knew 
that  he  was  comely,  but  it  had  never  made  any  impression  upon 
him.  His  mother  was  very  handsome,  and  it  was  only  natural 
that  he  should  resemble  her.  Picking  up  a  flat  stone,  he  sent 
it  skipping  down  the  hill,  to  relieve  his  irritation.  The  artist 
had  risen  and  was  holding  out  his  hand. 

"  Fra  Felice,"  he  said  in  a  pleasant  voice,  "  do  not  be  of- 
fended. I  want  to  be  your  friend,  and  I  should  like  your 
friendship  in  return;  but  I  am  very  much  in  earnest  about  the 
picture.  Will  you  not  give  me  some  sittings,  as  a  favor  from 
one  friend  to  another?  " 

Estori  took  the  offered  hand.  "  I  will  think  about  it,  Signer 
artista,"  he  said.  "  I  cannot  promise." 

"  Well,  come  and  see  me,  anyway,"  the  artist  replied  cor- 
dially, "  and  we  will  not  speak  about  the  picture  until  you  are 
ready.  My  name  is  Fauvel,  and  I  live  on  the  Vicolo  San  Ni- 
cola da  Tolentino,"  and  he  handed  him  a  card.  Then  he  col- 
lected his  materials  and  prepared  to  leave. 

"  Signor  Fauvel,"  said  Estori,  "  I  do  not  wish  to  be  ungra- 
cious ;  it  will  give  me  pleasure  to  call  upon  you,  and  I  will  loan 
you  a  habit  for  any  one  of  your  models  and  you  will  have  your 
picture  of  a  poor  monk." 

"  Oh,  my  brother,  you  misunderstand.  I  do  not  want  to 
paint  a  poor  monk.  I  can  get  a  dozen  of  them  to  sit  for  me. 
I  want  to  paint  a  handsome  youth,"  and  without  waiting  for  a 
reply,  the  artist  turned  and  was  gone. 

When  a  few  yards  off  he  turned  again,  looked  back  at  the 
young  figure  in  the  brown  habit  leaning  against  the  tree,  and 


The  Ancient  Wine  Cellar        47, 

called  out:  "  Come  in  next  Thursday,  Fra  Felice,  about  eleven 
if  you  can.  We  will  have  luncheon  together." 

Felice  Estori  looked  at  the  card. 

"  Meurice  Fauvel.  The  Julian  Academy,  Paris."  And  be- 
low the  number  of  his  studio  in- the  Vicolo  San  Nicola  da  To- 
lentino. 

As  Fauvel,  the  artist,  went  down  the  hill,  Jacopo  the  postman 
was  trudging  up.  "  How  fortunate !  "  thought  Estori ;  "  this 
artist  has  gone  just  in  time;  "  and  he  felt  inside  the  hole  in  the 
tree  to  be  sure  it  was  all  right.  Yes,  it  was  quite  empty ;  he 
pulled  out  a  few  bits  of  bark  and  earth  and  waited.  " Hola, 
Jacopo!  "  he  called,  as  the  postman  drew  near;  "  how  is  your 
good  father  to-day?  If  he  feels  strong  enough  to  talk  I  will 
run  in  and  see  him  this  afternoon." 

"  He  is  a  little  better,  Fra  Felice,  thanks  to  you  for  the  fresh 
eggs  and  the  wine,  and  he  will  be  happy  to  see  the  reverendo. 
He  says  Fra  Felice's  smile  makes  glad  his  old  heart." 

"  Povero!  I  will  surely  come.  Is  there  any  mail  for  me, 
Jacopo?  " 

The  postman  looked  over  the  packet  of  letters  in  his 
hand. 

"  Nothing,  Frate"  he  said ;  "  but  by  the  early  morning  mail 
there  was  a  letter." 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  have  it,"  said  Estori ;  "  this  is  it,"  and  he  took 
out  the  letter  of  Margaret  Randolph.  "  Listen,  Jacopo,"  and 
he  drew  the  man  towards  him  under  the  tree,  "  whenever  you 
have  a  letter  for  me  like  this,  in  this  handwriting,  do  not  deliver 
it  up  there,"  pointing  to  the  convent;  then,  casting  a  look  up 
and  down  the  path  to  make  sure  no  one  was  in  sight,  "  but  slip 
it  in  here,"  and  he  showed  him  the  knothole  in  the  tree.  "  Pro- 
vided, of  course,  there  may  be  no  one  around  watching  you. 
Capitef  *  I  have  reasons,  Jacopo,  good  reasons,  for  wishing 
you  to  do  this,  you  understand ;  you  will  not  forget  ?  " 

"  Be  tranquil,  reverendo,  certamente  I  will  not  forget.     All 

*Do  you  understand? 


48  A  Cry  of  Youth 

mail  in  this  foreign-looking  hand  for  Fra  Felice  Estori  to  be 
put  in  here,  and  all  other  mail  to  be  handed  in  at  the  door." 

"  Eccof  That  is  right,"  and  giving  him  the  fifty  centessimi, 
he  added,  "  and  fifty  more  for  every  letter  I  take  out  of  the 
tree." 

Jacopo,  profuse  in  his  promises  of  fidelity,  left  Fra  Felice 
leaning  against  his  chestnut  tree  lost  in  thought  as  to  how  he 
could  help  this  cherished  friend,  this  little  lonely  American. 
When  he  heard  the  great  bell  sound  the  dinner  hour  he  saun- 
tered back  to  the  house  and  into  the  refectory  with  the  others  of 
the  Community. 

It  being  Lent,  they  refrained  from  conversation  during  the 
midday  meal.  At  the  end  of  the  room  stood  a  raised  pulpit 
large  enough  to  hold  a  chair  and  reading  desk ;  a  door  opened  in 
the  wall  behind  it,  and  a  monk  stepped  forth,  seated  himself, 
and  began  to  read  aloud.  It  was  a  spiritual  exercise  from  the 
pen  of  some  saint  of  the  Order  and  the  subject  dealt  upon  the 
importance  of  crushing  out  all  earthly  affection  in  the  ascetic 
life.  Fra  Felice  heard  very  little  of  it,  for  he  was  mentally 
composing  a  beautiful  letter  to  Margherita  to  be  committed  to 
paper  so  soon  as  his  duties  for  the  day  should  be  over. 

After  dinner,  and  the  office  for  the  hour  being  said,  he  went 
into  town  to  visit  the  sick  father  of  Jacopo.  Coming  down  the 
Via  Nazionale,  he  caught  sight  of  himself  in  a  mirror  and  re- 
calling the  words  of  the  artist,  stopped  and  looked  at  his  re- 
flection. 

A  street  band  was  playing  a  gay  waltz.  He  had  danced  well 
as  a  boy.  He  would  like  to  dance  now,  he  thought,  with  the 
Signorina  Margherita  for  a  partner.  She  was  so  slight  and 
graceful,  he  was  sure  she  must  be  a  good  dancer.  He  remem- 
bered the  dances  given  at  his  home  where  all  was  elegance  and 
refinement,  in  his  father's  house,  his  house!  And  his  mother! 
A  pang  shot  through  his  heart  at  the  thought  of  her;  how  he 
should  love  to  see  her  again !  Passing  a  cafe,  he  noticed  a  young 
couple  at  one  of  the  tables  outside ;  they  were  laughing  and  chat- 


The  Ancient  Wine  Cellar        49 

ting.  How  pleasant  to  be  free  to  mingle  in  the  amusements  of 
the  world,  with  a  companion  of  one's  choice,  and  not  have  to 
think  that  one  must  needs  be  indoors  for  this  office  or  that ;  and 
he  turned  regretfully  off  the  gay  thoroughfare  and  hastened 
back  to  his  convent  home  on  the  Palatine. 

Supper  over  he  was  called  into  the  library  by  one  of  the 
older  fathers  whose  eyesight  was  growing  dim,  to  help  search 
on  the  map  for  a  town  in  South  America  that  he  wished  to 
locate.  The  library  was  the  pleasantest  room  in  that  cold,  bar- 
ren monastery.  Huge  oil  lamps  hanging  by  iron  chains  from 
the  ceiling  burned  brightly,  casting  a  ruddy  glow  upon  the 
brick  floor.  The  shelves  were  laden  with  interesting  volumes 
by  ancient  and  modern  writers  on  religion,  art,  history,  science, 
astronomy,  and  the  classics  in  every  language.  Spaces  that  were 
not  taken  up  by  books  were  covered  with  maps  and  charts. 
There  were  some  rare  old  illuminated  missals  on  tables,  under 
glass,  specimens  of  ancient  scriptural  writings  by  the  early 
Fathers  of  the  church,  and  standing  in  a  corner  a  large  globe  of 
the  world  so  battered  by  long  years  of  service  that  it  was  hard 
to  distinguish  one  country  from  another.  Fra  Felice  turned 
from  the  map  to  the  globe  and  revolved  it  rather  impatiently, 
searching  for  the  place  desired  by  the  old  monk. 

"  I  cannot  find  it,  Padre,"  he  said ;  "  I  think  the  town  is  not 
of  enough  importance  to  be  marked." 

"  Not  so,  my  son ;  it  is  a  post-office  town  and  it  must  be  there. 
Bring  out  an  atlas  and  look  for  Brazil,  and  I  think  your  bright 
young  eyes  will  be  able  to  find  it." 

Estori  obeyed.  "More  delay,"  he  said  to  himself;  it  was 
now  only  twenty  minutes  to  compline,  then  to  bed ;  and  he  had 
something  very  particular  to  do. 

"  Ecco!  Here  it  is,  my  Father,"  he  said  at  length,  keeping 
one  eye  on  the  clock  and  one  on  the  map;  "  is  there  anything 
else,  Reverendo  ?  " 

"  No,  that  is  all,  thank  you,  son,"  replied  the  old  man,  and 
Estori  hurried  away. 


50  A  Cry  of  Youth 

To  accomplish  what  he  had  in  mind  before  the  bell  rang  it 
was  necessary  to  take  a  short  cut  through  the  rambling  build- 
ings; this  led  him  past  the  kitchen  where  the  lay  brothers  were 
preparing  bread  to  be  baked  in  the  morning  and  to  the  cellar 
door.  Some  of  them  wondered  where  the  young  brother  should 
be  going,  but  he  had  been  brought  up  among  them  and  was  al- 
lowed the  freedom  of  the  house,  having  many  privileges  on  ac- 
count of  his  high-born  station,  they  supposed,  and  of  the  pious 
nobleman  with  whom  he  was  connected.  Closing  the  door 
after  him,  Estori  ran  down  the  stairs  and  crossing  the  cellar 
where  were  kept  numerous  wine  vats,  he  descended  another 
stair  to  a  sub-cellar  or  series  of  vaults.  Holding  a  candle  high 
above  his  head,  so  that  it  might  throw  the  light  on  the  rough 
earthen  floor,  he  passed  through  several  openings  until  he  came 
to  a  heap  of  rubbish  against  a  wall.  Here  he  set  his  candle 
down  and  began  to  clear  away  some  odds  and  ends  of  boards, 
bricks  and  broken  pottery. 

In  times  gone  by  this  sub-cellar  had  been  used  for  the  cooling 
of  wine  in  the  amphora,  or  pottery  vases  made  by  the  old  Ro- 
mans and  sunk  into  the  earth,  and  the  unevenness  of  the  ground 
was  caused  by  the  falling  in  of  the  circular  pits  dug  for  the 
storing  of  the  wine.  As  he  worked  he  thought  of  the  first  time 
he  had  cleared  away  this  pile.  It  was  quite  five  years  ago,  on  a 
day  when  the  convent  had  been  honored  by  a  visit  from  a  great 
Cardinal.  The  Father  Superior,  wishing  to  give  the  Cardinal 
of  the  best  the  house  could  supply,  had  sent  Fra  Luigi,  the 
steward,  to  fetch  a  bottle  of  the  choicest  wine.  Fra  Luigi  kept 
this  particular  wine  lying  on  the  floor  in  this  underground 
chamber,  for  nowhere  else  could  it  get  so  cool.  Fra  Luigi  was 
old  and  rheumatic,  and  the  boy  Estori  had  marked  his  painful 
hobbling  and  in  the  kindness  of  his  young  heart  had  insisted 
upon  doing  the  serving  brother's  errand  for  him.  That  same 
day  the  Marchese  Pallavicino  had  visited  him  and  given  him 
a  100  lire  gold  piece;  it  was  a  present  from  his  mother,  who 
could  not  come  herself.  How  rich  he  had  felt  as  he- had  run 


The  Ancient  Wine  Cellar        51 

down  the  steps  two  at  a  time  to  bring  up  the  wine  for  poor 
old  Luigi.  He  had  held  the  gold  coin  in  his  hand  as  he 
went. 

He  had  never  been  down  there  before,  but  with  Luigi's  direc- 
tions penetrated  into  the  third  opening  which  was  lower  than 
the  rest  and  therefore  cooler;  he  had  had  no  trouble  in  finding 
the  wine,  and  taking  up  a  bottle  was  about  to  return  when 
the  100  lire  piece  slipped  from  his  hand  and  rolled  away  out 
of  sight,  underneath  the  pile  of  rubbish.  He  knew  he  could 
not  take  the  time  to  search  for  it  then,  the  Cardinal's  supper 
must  not  be  kept  waiting,  but  as  soon  as  he  had  given  the  wine 
to  Luigi  and  watched  him  hobble  off,  he  had  returned  to 
the  spot  to  search  for  the  precious  coin.  He  had  been  obliged 
to  clear  away  the  entire  debris  before  finding  it,  and  then  he 
saw  that  the  nucleus  of  the  pile  had  been  formed  by  a  few 
bricks  falling  out  of  place  in  the  wall  near  the  floor.  They 
were  so  old  they  had  almost  disintegrated  and  some  good  lazy 
brother,  long  since  gone  to  rest,  rather  than  trouble  to  replace 
them  had  thrown  some  boards  and  other  junk  at  hand  over 
the  opening,  and  thereby  lost  the  chance  of  making  an  archaeo- 
logical discovery. 

But  young  Estori  after  securing  his  gold  piece  had  examined 
the  hole,  and  saw  that  the  wall  at  this  point  had  been  made 
to  test  out  some  ancient  Roman  brickwork.  He  thrust 
Luigi's  lamp  inside  and  discovered  a  circular  chamber  several 
feet  below  the  opening,  with  marble  steps  leading  down  into 
it.  Full  of  boyish  curiosity  he  had  tugged  at  the  loose  bricks 
until  the  opening  was  large  enough  to  crawl  through;  then 
he  descended,  taking  the  lamp  with  him.  A  few  glances  showed 
that  he  had  stumbled  upon  a  relic  of  Imperial  Pagan  Rome! 
He  knew  his  mythology  well,  and  there  were  pagan  frescoes, 
bacchantes,  nymphs  and  satyrs,  sporting  upon  the  crumbling 
walls.  The  ceiling  was  dome-shaped,  upheld  by  slender  col- 
umns of  Numidian  marble.  The  atmosphere  was  warm  and 
dry.  Far  up  above,  the  grass  and  flowers  and  vines  were 


52  A  Cry  of  Youth 

growing  and  perhaps  at  that  moment  one  of  his  companions 
was  saying  his  beads  while  walking  up  and  down  a  garden 
path  overhead. 

The  medieval  monastery  was  built  upon  the  site  of  Nero's 
Golden  House.  He  was  standing  in  an  undiscovered  portion 
of  Caesar's  palace!  His  first  impulse  had  been  to  run  and  tell 
the  Fathers  of  his  wonderful  find,  but  upon  second  thought 
he  decided  to  keep  it  a  secret.  He  had  no  real  place  of  his 
own  and  here  he  would  be  free  tp  do  as  he  chose.  He  would 
fit  it  up  with  a  chair  and  a  lamp  and  come  here  to  read  the 
wild  stones  of  adventure  that  were  for  sale  on  the  news- 
stands, which  he  dared  not  read  openly.  Also  he  would 
bring  a  few  private  treasures  that  he  had  hitherto  kept  sewed 
up  in  his  mattress;  here  he  could  look  at  them  and  enjoy 
them.  Yes,  this  would  be  his  own  personal  sanctum  and  no 
one  should  know  of  it. 

Ever  since,  for  five  years,  this  hidden  chamber  had  been 
his  alone  and  no  member  of  the  community  so  much  as  sus- 
pected its  existence.  Old  Fra  Luigi  had  died  that  summer, 
and  the  brother  who  succeeded  him  as  steward  found  a  more 
accessible  storeroom  in  other  cellars  for  the  cooling  of  wine, 
and  so  Estori  was  the  only  one  who  ever  came  here.  And  now, 
kicking  away  the  last  boards,  he  entered  and  swept  the  candle 
around  the  space  wherein  he  stood,  its  light  warming  into 
life  the  rich  colored  marble  of  the  floor.  What  would  not 
the  archaeologists  give  to  see  that  flooring,  set  in  regular 
design  with  lapis  lazuli,  jade,  porphory  and  jasper.  A  fortune 
was  in  each  block  of  marble !  Crossing  the  chamber  he  dropped 
on  the  ground  before  a  cracked  disc  of  lapis  lazuli.  He  set 
his  candle  down  beside  him  and  removed  the  stone. 

At  the  time  of  his  first  visit  he  had  discovered  a  small 
statue  of  Eros  on  the  floor;  it  lay  in  front  of  the  niche  from 
which  it  had  fallen ;  one  little  wing  broken  off  at  the  shoulder 
was  beside  it ;  the  other,  broken  also,  had  disappeared.  He  had 
raised  it  in  his  strong  young  arms,  and  set  it  back  in  place  and 


The  Ancient  Wine  Cellar        53 

it  had  watched  him  come  and  go  and  he  had  talked  to  it  as 
to  a  familiar  friend.  Underneath  the  slab  of  lapis  lazuli  was 
a  space  of  about  six  inches  and  inside  a  red  woolen  cloth  which 
he  unfolded.  It  contained  a  package  of  letters,  some  loose 
manuscripts,  in  a  round  boyish  hand,  a  few  sensational  novels, 
a  woman's  glove,  a  gold  locket  and  chain,  and  a  small  ring 
of  dingy  beaten  metal. 

From  his  pocket  he  took  Margaret  Randolph's  last  letter  and 
laid  it  upon  the  others;  the  ring  he  slipped  on  and  off  his 
finger  and  put  it  down  again.  This  ring  he  had  found  wedged 
in  the  crack  of  the  disc  he  had  just  removed,  and  had  extracted 
it  from  its  lodging  with  his  pen-knife.  The  small  gray  glove 
he  pressed  to  his  lips.  What  made  him  feel  suddenly  unhappy? 
Was  it  the  touch  of  that  glove  so  essentially  feminine  —  he  had 
nothing  feminine  in  his  life  —  was  it  a  longing  for  Margherita, 
or  his  mother?  He  dropped  the  glove,  caught  up  the  locket 
and  opened  it.  A  sweet,  girlish  face  smiled  at  him.  She  had 
clustering  curls,  black  as  his  own,  laughing  eyes  and  a  beautiful 
mouth.  "  How  much  she  looks  like  me,"  he  thought.  This 
miniature  of  his  mother  had  been  painted  when  he  was  three 
years  old  and  he  had  worn  it  around  his  neck  with  a  little 
gold  Madonna  attached  to  the  same  chain,  until  the  day  when 
he  put  on  the  monk's  habit.  "  Mamma,"  he  whispered,  "  how 
happy  I  would  be  to  see  you !  "  And  he  had  become  "  Frate  " 
without  even  asking  her  consent. 

True  his  step-father  had  assured  him  that  if  he  wished  to 
follow  in  the  footsteps  of  the  holy  St.  Francis,  his  mother 
would  never  stand  in  his  light.  She  had  other  children  now, 
small  brothers  and  sisters  whom  he  had  never  seen.  Did 
she  think  of  him  every  day,  he  wondered,  Leone  her  first 
child?  He  gazed  lovingly  at  the  likeness,  trying  to  find  an 
answer  in  the  laughing  eyes. 

And  the  little  wingless  Love  looked  down  upon  him  from 
the  niche  in  the  wall,  with  an  innocent  smile  frozen  on  its 
baby  face  of  everlasting  marble.  With  a  start  his  reverie 


54  A  Cry  of  Youth 

came  to  an  end;  he  must  return  immediately,  or  he  would  be 
late  for  compline;  no  sound  of  the  bell  could  penetrate  into 
these  depths. 

He  held  the  miniature  one  second  against  his  breast,  kissed 
it  fondly  and  laid  it  back  among  the  collection,  carefully  folding 
the  red  cloth  over  all;  he  restored  the  disc  to  the  floor  and 
snatching  up  the  candle  rose  to  leave. 

"  Good  night,  Amore,"  he  said,  addressing  the  statue ;  "  soon 
I  will  visit  thee  again;  thou  hast  guarded  well  my  treasures 
all  these  years;  watch  ever,"  and  mounting  the  steps,  he  hastily 
crawled  through  the  opening  and  hurrying  on  was  just  in 
time  to  take  his  place  in  the  line  of  brown-robed  brethren  that 
was  filing  into  the  chapel  for  the  last  office. 


CHAPTER  VI 

LEARNING  NEW  ETHICS 

"Child  of  the  Infinite  One, 
Born   to   eternal    day, 
Made  in  the  image  of  God, 
To  traverse  the  Heavenly  way; 
As  a  fountain  that  never  fails 
Thy  spirit  and  life  are  free 
And  all  that  belongs  to  God 
Rightly  belongs  to  thee." 

Meurice  Fauvel  was  forty  years  old,  a  man  of  strong  likes 
and  dislikes,  and  a  generous  heart;  loyal  to  a  degree  in  his 
friendships,  agnostic  in  his  views.  He  had  the  greatest  faith 
in  his  own  sex  and  a  light  opinion  of  women.  He  believed  in 
the  love  of  few  of  them,  in  the  virtue  of  none.  He  went  on 
the  theory  that  every  woman  had  her  price.  It  was  either 
ambition,  position,  money  or  love.  For  the  women  .whose 
price  was  love,  he  had  profound  respect.  In  his  youth  he  had 
been  deceived  by  a  woman  he  deeply  loved  and  he  had  vowed 
then  that  no  other  should  ever  make  him  suffer  again. 

His  friendships  were  his  greatest  pleasure.  He  was  thor- 
oughly artistic,  and  an  intense  lover  of  beauty.  The  young 
monk  of  the  Palatine,  with  his  classical  features,  his  exceptional 
coloring,  his  graceful  carriage  and  soft  movements,  with  such 
strength  of  limb  and  glow  of  health,  was  without  doubt  the 
most  beautiful  creature  he  had  ever  beheld.  One  moment  he 
seemed  like  a  superb  young  panther  unconscious  of  his  power, 
the  next  "  made  in  the  image  and  likeness  of  God." 

As  Fauvel  sat  in  his  studio  this  spring  morning,  he  was 
comparing  Estori  to  the  work  he  had  in  hand ; —  a  portrait  of 
the  only  son  and  heir  of  a  French  nobleman,  a  small,  sickly 
youth  with  sharp,  pinched  features  and  a  discontented  expression. 

55 


56  A  Cry  of  Youth 

The  youth  he  had  in  his  mind,  and  the  youth  before  him  on  the 
canvas  were  in  marked  contrast. 

He  was  a  faithful  worker  and  his  portraits  had  excited 
attention,  and  he  felt  that  he  might  indeed  become  famous 
could  he  only  persuade  Estori  to  sit  for  him.  More  than  this 
he  was  interested  in  him  personally.  Estori  was  unusual  and 
original  and  Fauvel  was  curious  to  know  how  it  had  come  to 
pass  that  anyone  so  richly  endowed  by  nature  had  stepped  out 
of  life's  race  where  he  could  so  easily  win  his  laurels,  to  shut 
himself  in  the  cloister.  He  put  down  his  brush,  tipped  back 
his  chair  and  lost  himself  in  thought.  He  enjoyed  the  study 
of  character  and  the  young  Franciscan  was  a  problem.  He 
was  aroused  by  a  knock  at  the  door.  "  Avanti,"  he  answered, 
and  the  door  opened  upon  the  subject  of  his  thoughts. 

"  Fra  Felice,"  he  exclaimed,  rising  and  holding  out  his  hand 
in  a  most  cordial  welcome,  "  I  am  delighted  to  see  you.  I've 
been  hoping  you  would  come;  how  are  you?  " 

Estori  answered  his  questions  courteously  and  glanced  around. 
The  room  was  good-sized  with  a  skylight  and  a  large  window 
facing  north  that  opened  on  a  court.  There  were  finished 
and  unfinished  paintings  and  sketches  about;  in  one  corner  was 
a  plaster-cast  of  the  Capitoline  Venus,  in  another  a  bust  of 
Augustus. 

"  A  crude  sort  of  place  I  have  here,"  Fauvel  said,  "  more 
of  a  workshop  than  anything  else ;  you  should  see  my  real  studio 
in  Brussels.  I  am  a  Belgian  and  Brussels  is  my  home.  I  am 
only  a  student,  so  to  speak,  in  Rome,  though  this  is  my  fourth 
season  here.  Take  this  arm-chair  and  if  you  will  allow  me 
I'll  go  on  with  my  work  while  we  talk.  This  young  gentle- 
man," pointing  to  the  portrait,  "  I  am  expecting  for  his  last 
sitting  this  afternoon  and  I  want  to  be  ready  for  him." 

"  Continue  by  all  means,"  said  Estori,  "  I  like  to  watch  you. 
How  pleasant  it  must  be  to  have  some  work  like  this,  that  one 
can  do  little  by  little  and  afterwards  say  to  oneself  — '  I  have 
made  that.'  " 


Learning  New  Ethics  57 

"  It  is,"  said  Fauvel,  "  there  is  nothing  like  pleasant,  con- 
genial work  that  one  can  see  grow,  as  you  say.  To  study  it 
out  in  all  its  details,  to  improve  and  progress,  to  master  its 
difficulties  and  to  feel  within  oneself  the  power  of  creating; 
to  create,  that  is  the  joy  of  an  artist's  life.  Have  you  any 
special  work  that  you  are  interested  in  ?  "  asked  Fauvel,  touch- 
ing up  the  sandy  hair  of  the  French  youth. 

"  Nothing  in  particular." 

"  That's  a  pity.  I  did  not  know  but  what  there  was  some 
one  thing  you  young  Franciscans  were  engaged  in." 

"  No,"  he  replied,  "  we  keep  the  Rule  and  we  make  visits." 

"  Humph,"  said  Fauvel,  "  would  you  mind  telling  me  how 
you  pass  the  day  ?  I  should  like  very  much  to  know." 

Felice  Estori  laughed  softly.  "  There  is  not  much  to  tell, 
Signor  artista,"  he  said.  "  I  rise  at  four  o'clock  in  the 
morning  and  hear  Mass;  when  it  is  over  I  go  into  the  garden 
and  watch  the  sun  rise  and  water  my  rose-bushes,  unless  there 
is  a  heavy  dew;  then  comes  the  morning  meal  and  afterwards 
my  studies  with  the  Fathers.  I  am  to  be  ordained  priest  as 
soon  as  I  am  twenty-four,"  he  added  with  sudden  dignity. 

"  Indeed." 

"  Then  I  have  work  for  a  while.  Afterwards  I  come  into 
the  city  and  make  visits  and  if  it  is  summer  I  catch  butterflies. 
I  have  a  pretty  collection  under  glass  in  our  museum." 

"  You  stick  pins  in  them  and  let  them  flutter  to  death,  I 
suppose,"  said  Fauvel,  a  little  dryly. 

"  Oh  no,  no!  That  would  be  cruel,"  he  answered;  "  I  put 
camphor  on  their  heads  and  they  die  immediately." 

"What  else?" 

"  Oh,  there  are  the  daily  offices  you  know,  matins,  lauds, 
tierce,  sext,  mones,  vespers  and  compline." 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  understand  that,  but  you  yourself?  " 

"  I  have  several  poor  people  I  look  after  and  again  when 
I  am  free  in  the  afternoons  I  take  walks  with  my  companions. 
I  can  walk  from  Rome  to  Frascati,"  he  said  proudly. 


58  A  Cry  of  Youth 

"  I  don't  doubt  it,"  said  Fauvel,  glancing  at  the  splendidly 
proportioned  figure,  "and  in  bad  weather,  what  then?  I  am 
not  asking  out  of  curiosity,  but  interest,  you  understand." 

"  Oh,  at  such  times  if  I  am  not  needed  by  some  of  the  older 
Fathers  whose  eyesight  is  poor,  to  read  or  write  for  them, 
I  compose  poetry,  I  practice  a  little  on  my  violin  and  I  think 
and  think  —  about  things." 

"  I  imagine  we  both  do  a  good  deal  of  thinking,  Fra  Felice. 
I  was  thinking  of  you  when  you  came  in  and  I  am  thinking 
now  that  the  life  you  describe  would  kill  me.  But  tell  me 
about  the  poetry;  I  should  like  to  read  some  of  your  verses, 
may  I?" 

The  young  monk  hesitated.  "Do 'let  me  see  them,"  con- 
tinued Fauvel ;  "  have  you  had  any  published  ?  " 

"  No,"  he  answered,  "  I  do  not  know  how  to  arrange  for  it." 

"  I  do,  though.  I  began  work  as  a  sketch-artist  on  a  French 
magazine  and  I  have  friends  in  the  literary  world;  I  might  get 
them  published  for  you." 

Estori  flushed.  "I  —  I  would  not  like  it  to  be  known 
that  I  had  written  them,"  he  said,  "  for  you  see  it  is  not  a 
religious  poetry  and  it  might  cause  comment." 

"  There  is  no  occasion  for  it  to  be  known ;  you  can  have  a 
'  nom  de  plume'  Just  initials  if  you  like  of  your  Christian 
name." 

"  It  is  Leone." 

"  That  is  good,  '  Leone.'  You  remind  me  sometimes  of  a 
young  lion.  '  Leone  '  suits  you  exactly.  Bring  me  your  verses 
and  I  will  see  what  I  can  do." 

"  Thank  you,  thanks  Signore.     When  shall  I  bring  them  ?  " 

This  was  just  the  opening  Fauvel  wanted.  He  had  deter- 
mined not  to  mention  the  sitting  the  first  time  Estori  called. 
He  wrould  make  friends  with  him,  gradually  gain  his  con- 
fidence and  the  rest  would  come.  He  put  down  his  brush, 
sat  back  in  his  chair  and  folded  his  arms.  "  Let  me  see,  to-day 
is  Thursday;  can  you  come  on  Sunday,  Fra  Felice?  " 


Learning'  New  Ethics  59 

"  Yes,  I  can.  And,  Signer  Artista,"  he  added,  "  there  is 
something  I  came  to  speak  to  you  about  to-day.  A  friend  of 
mine  would  like  to  find  some  pupils  in  English.  Is  there 
any  one  you  know  of  who  would  be  likely  to  take  lessons  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  say  I  know  of  any  one  at  present,  but  I  will  keep 
it  in  mind." 

"  I  shall  esteem  it  greatly  if  you  will  remember,"  Estori 
said,  rising,  "  and  now  I  must  go." 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  Fauvel,  "  I  invited  you  to  have  luncheon 
with  me." 

"  I  may  not  stop  this  morning,  thank  you,  Signore.  Some 
other  time  it  will  give  me  much  pleasure  to  accept.  I  am 
busy  to-day,"  and  in  five  minutes  he  was  gone. 

"  Busy,"  said  Fauvel  to  himself,  as  he  closed  the  door  after 
him.  "  Busy  with  the  poetry,  the  butterflies  and  the  roses 
and  an  occasional  '  Ave  '  and  '  Pater  Noster  '  thrown  in.  M on 
Dieuf  What  a  life  for  a  boy  like  that." 

When  Fra  Felice  was  returning  from  his  visit  to  Fauvel, 
he  saw  an  equipage  with  a  familiar  livery,  in  front  of  the 
Convent  door  and  as  he  drew  near  he  recognized  the  coat  of 
arms  of  the  family  of  Estori.  The  brother  porter  was  standing 
in  the  doorway  talking  with  a  footman.  "  Eccola!  "  he  said, 
pointing  to  the  approaching  monk,  and  the  servant  stepped  for- 
ward and  bowing  low  handed  him  a  note.  Opening  it  he 
read: 

Fra  Felice  Estori 
Dearest  Cousin: 

My  beloved  father  has  been  ill  for  three  days,  but  only  this  morn- 
ing have  the  doctors  become  anxious.     I  beg  that  you  will  hasten  to 
us,  as  he  has  asked  to  see  you.     In  mercy  pray  for  his  recovery,  or  that 
he  may  be  given  the  grace  of  a  peaceful  death. 
Your  affectionate  cousin, 

DANIELE  FILIPO  ESTORIN. 

It  was  his  father's  cousin,  the  old  Prince,  who  was  ill. 
These  cousins  had  paid  him  little  or  no  attention  since  his 
boyhood,  but  they  were  in  trouble  and  had  sent  for  him,  so 


60  A  Cry  of  Youth 

bidding  the  messenger  wait  he  obtained*  from  his  Superior 
the  necessary  leave  of  absence  and  was  driven  away.  Three 
days  passed.  The  old  man  was  hovering  between  life  and 
death,  but  on  the  third  which  was  Sunday  he  rallied  and 
the  doctors  said  he  might  live  for  weeks;  so  Fra  Felice  went 
back  to  report  to  the  Convent  and  ask  permission  to  remain 
a  few  days  longer  with  his  relatives.  It  was  readily  granted, 
for  the  old  Prince  and  his  son  were  staunch  members  of  the 
Black  Party  and  Daniele  had  sent  by  his  young  kinsman  a 
large  sum  of  money,  to  be  given  in  alms  to  the  poor,  and 
asking  for  the  prayers  of  the  community. 

While  Fra  Felice  was  in  his  cell  repacking  a  small  valise, 
he  remembered  his  engagement  with  the  artist.  He  had  never 
expected  to  have  his  verses  published,  he  had  written  them 
for  his  own  amusement  and  the  idea  of  actually  seeing  them  in 
print  dazzled  him.  It  was  too  great  a  chance  to  let  slip.  He 
would  have  time  to  make  his  visit  to  Fauvel  before  going  to 
his  anxious  cousins;  so  collecting  the  manuscripts,  he  threw 
them  into  the  valise  and  set  out. 

Fauvel  received  Estori  in  what  was  called  his  "  lounge." 
Oriental  rugs  were  upon  the  floor  and  expensive  draperies  hung 
at  the  windows.  There  was  a  great,  comfortable  leather  couch 
with  many  pillows,  and  upholstered  chairs  stood  invitingly 
around.  He  had  shelves  full  of  books  in  French,  German  and 
Italian.  On  the  center  table  which  held  an  assortment  of 
smoking  paraphernalia  was  a  bronze  lamp  with  an  amber  shade. 
Photographs  of  singers,  actresses  and  dancers  were  scattered 
about  the  room,  also  a  few  studies  in  the  nude  and  semi-nude 
and  a  series  of  pen-and-ink  sketches  of  the  Castle  Saint  Angelo, 
the  Pantheon,  the  Vatican  Gardens  and  other  monuments  of 
Rome.  There  was  a  wonderfully  carved  cabinet  full  of  choice 
glass  and  silverware  and  near  it  a  tapestry  screen  which  stood 
before  a  door  opening  into  the  bedroom.  But  the  most  prom- 
inent object  was  a  big,  brilliant  macaw,  perched  on  a  high 
ornate  stand. 


Learning1  New  Ethics  61 

Fauvel  was  seated  in  an  easy  chair,  smoking  a  Turkish 
cigarette,  with  the  manuscripts  on  a  tabourette  beside  him, 
while  his  guest  crouched  upon  the  sofa,  elbows  on  knees  and 
chin  resting  in  his  hands,  eagerly,  yet  nervously  watching  the 
varying  expression  on  the  face  of  Fauvel  as  he  read.  These 
verses  were  the  thoughts  and  working  of  his  innermost  heart 
and  mind  and  to  uncover  them  thus  in  cold  blood  to  a  com- 
parative stranger  had  been  no  easy  matter. 

"  If  I  had  written  these  poems  I  would  not  be  at  all  ashamed 
to  sign  them."  That  was  Fauvel's  first  deliverance.  "  Yes," 
he  repeated,  "  I  should  sign  my  name  to  them  with  great 
pride." 

"  That  is  true,  Signor  Artista  —  true?  " 

"  True,  every  word  of  it,"  was  the  reply.  "  This  one 
on  '  Springtime  '  is  a  gem,  and  this,  '  The  Song  of  the  Shepherd,' 
exquisite.  There  is  a  symmetry,  a  rhythm  to  the  lines  that 
is  music.  And  the  one  you  call  '  Lonely  Rose,'  shows  a  depth 
of  feeling  I  should  have  said  you  were  too  young  to  under- 
stand." 

Estori  colored.     "  I  am  in  my  twenty-third  year,"  he  said. 

"  A  mere  infant,"  answered  Fauvel,  smiling  kindly.  "  And 
these  others,"  taking  up  a  sheet  he  had  laid  down,  "  are  fair 
and  promising.  You  are  writing  somewhat  over  your  head 
in  the  sonnet  called  '  Shadow ' ;  when  you  are  ten  years  older 
try  it  again.  But  let  me  have  these,  '  The  Song  of  the  Shep- 
herd,' 'The  Lonely  Rose'  and  'Spring-time!'  I  have  no 
doubt  I  can  get  them  accepted  for  you  and  paid  for  as  well. 
There  is  a  periodical  published  in  Florence  that  wants  just 
this  sort  of  thing  and  the  editor  is  a  friend  of  mine." 

"  Oh,  Signor  Fauvel,  I  shall  be  so  grateful !  "  Estori  sprang 
from  his  seat  and  stood  in  front  of  him ;  "  but  you  understand 
I  do  not  put  my  name  to  them.  If  they  were  religious 
poetry  — " 

"  Why,  man,"  exclaimed  Fauvel  cutting  him  short,  "  you 
don't  know  what  you  are  talking  about!  They  are  teeming 


62  A  Cry  of  Youth 

with  religion,  the  best,  the  most  wholesome  and  the  most 
intelligent  spirit  of  religion  in  the  world!  Your  verses  ring 
with  the  love  of  God  for  man  and  with  the  gratitude  in  the 
human  heart  for  the  gifts  of  life,  and  hope  and  the  power  of 
enjoyment  of  all  His  great  works.  Your  '  Springtime '  is  the 
joyous  response  of  the  creature  to  the  Creator;  I'd  like  to 
know  what  more  beautiful  religion  there  is  than  that?  You 
churchmen,"  he  added  scornfully,  "  think  there  can  be  no 
religion  without  dogma." 

Fra  Felice  was  silent  for  a  moment;  then  he  said,  "They 
might  be  called  religious,  I  suppose,  if  one  looked  at  them 
in  that  light.  For  myself  I  never  thought  so;  I  only  wrote 
what  I  felt  and  no  one  but  you,  Signore,  has  even  seen  them." 

"  Well,  I  intend  that  many  shall  see  them,"  Fauvel  said, 
gathering  up  the  papers,  selecting  the  ones  he  wanted  and 
handing  the  remainder  to  Estori.  "  This  is  the  sort  of 
religion  the  world  has  need  of.  Love,  sincere,  pure  unselfish 
love  for  God  and  man,  beast  and  bird.  Your  verses  are 
worth  a  dozen  sermons  preached  from  a  pulpit  in  a  dismal  old 
church.  Pshaw !  "  he  continued,  knocking  the  ashes  from  his 
cigarette,  "  I  care  nothing  for  creeds.  I  do  not  know  where 
I  came  from  and  I  do  not  know  where  I  am  to  go ;  I  only  know 
that  I  am  here.  The  Earth  exists,  that  I  know  too;  it's  none 
of  my  business  why;  I  would  be  wasting  time  if  I  tried  to 
solve  the  problem.  I  am  only  an  atom  tossed  for  a  brief 
space  upon  its  surface;  but  I  am  an  important  atom,  a  por- 
tion of  a  puzzle,  as  it  were,  that  cannot  be  fitted  together 
without  me;  therefore  I  am  of  use  and  it  is  my  use  to  help 
brighten.  It  is  within  my  power  to  add  to  the  joy  or  sorrow 
of  the  other  portions  of  the  Great  Puzzle  that  come  near  me." 

Fauvel  took  three  long  puffs  of  his  cigarette  and  sent  rings 
of  smoke  circling  about  his  head. 

'  This  is  a  truth  to  my  mind  that  shines  out  plainly.  Now 
I  believe,"  he  went  on,  "  the  trouble  with  all  of  us  is  that  we 
are  lacking  in  conceit;  we  do  not  realize  our  own  importance. 


Learning  New  Ethics  63 

Of  course  it  is.  Let  us  stop  wondering  why  we  were  born, 
stop  looking  out  for  flaws  and  faults  and  errors  and  cease 
our  religious  controversies.  Instead,  let  us  in  our  humility 
as  atoms  acknowledge  that  we  know  nothing  of  the  why  and 
wherefore  of  the  Creator,  but  let  us  rise  up  in  the  pride  of 
our  manhood  and  each  one  say,  '  I  am  part  of  His  almighty 
Scheme;  no  matter  how  full  the  world  is,  it  has  need  of  me 
or  I  would  not  be  in  it.  I  was  sent  to  strengthen  His  plan,  and 
I  believe  that  plan  is  love.'  " 

Estori's  eyes  had  grown  larger  and  larger  as  he  listened. 
He  had  never  heard  an  argument  of  this  kind  before. 

"  Then,  Signore,"  he  said,  "  there  is  no  fear  of  God  in  your 
great  plan  —  only  love  ?  " 

"  If  all  were  love,  there  would  be  no  place  for  fear." 

"Fear  of  sin?" 

"What  do  you  call  sin?" 

"  What  one's  conscience  tells  him  is  wrong." 

"  Conscience  is  a  matter  of  education,  just  as  morality  is 
a  matter  of  geography.  If  I  were  a  Hindoo  or  a  Turk  I 
could  have  three  wives,  or  four,  or  as  big  a  harem  as  I  could 
support.  Being  a  European  I  can  have  but  one.  I  am  even 
told  that  among  some  tribes  of  Esquimaux  a  man  may  exchange 
wives  with  his  neighbor.  A  question  of  the  map,  that  is  all." 

"  But  Christian  morals  are  the  same  throughout  the  world, 
regardless  of  race  or  color,"  Estori  said.  "  Wherever  our 
missionaries  go  preaching  the  teachings  of  Christ,  there  exist 
or  should  exist  Christian  morals." 

"  You  are  wise  to  amend  your  statement,"  Fauvel  answered 
ironically,  "  but  let  us  not  have  a  moral  discussion  at  present ; 
there  are  more  interesting  topics.  I  see  in  your  verses  the 
natural  religion  of  your  heart.  I  read  more  of  it  between 
the  lines.  You,  Fra  Felice,  might  win  spurs  in  the  literary 
field  if  you  did  not  wear  that  habit." 

"What  is  the  matter  with  my  habit?  It  is  an  ancient  and 
honorable  dress." 


64  A  Cry  of  Youth 

"  Oh,  there's  nothing  the  matter  with  the  habit,  it  is  pic- 
turesque and  medieval  and  drapery  suits  your  style ;  the  trouble 
is  with  you." 

Estori  threw  back  his  head  and  said  a  little  haughtily,  "  I 
have  never  disgraced  it." 

"  No,  no,  I  do  not  mean  that,  but  it  cramps  your  capabil- 
ities. It  makes  you  narrow  and  stilted.  You  are  even  afraid 
to  sign  your  name  to  those  beautiful  verses.  You  might 
become  a  great  poet  if  you  were  free  to  come  boldly  into  the 
world,  to  taste  of  its  joys  and  sorrows,  to  learn  its  temptations 
and  pit-falls,  to  sift  the  good  from  the  evil;  then  there  would 
be  a  marked  difference  in  your  writings.  So  far  you  have 
only  theories  and  ideas,  charming  and  poetical,  still  they  are 
only  fancies.  What  you  need  is  experience  to  make  your 
works  live,  personal  experience,  the  greatest  teacher.  But 
I  do  not  see  how  you  are  going  to  get  it  as  long  as  you  wear 
the  habit.  How  did  you  ever  come  to  put  it  on  ?  " 

Estori  did  not  answer  for  a  moment;  there  was  a  far- 
away look  in  his  strange  eyes;  then  he  said  slowly,  "  It  is  a 
mystery." 

"  I  should  think  it  was !  "  said  Fauvel.  "  How  a  youth 
of  your  attractions  and  tastes  could  ever  have  chosen  monastic 
life  is  beyond  my  comprehension." 

"  I  do  not  know  that  I  did  choose  it.  I  grew  up  with  the 
idea  of  it.  I  was  sent  as  a  private  pupil  to  a  Franciscan 
priest.  My  mother  and  step-father  are  very  devout  people. 
I  think  they  always  expected  I  would  become  a  monk." 

"  Ah,"  said  Fauvel,  "  I  understand  better  now.  So  you 
walked  into  the  trap  ?  " 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"  I  will  tell  you  sometime.  Our  parents  often  think  they 
can  arrange  a  satisfactory  career  for  us  and  as  often  they 
are  mistaken.  Your  experience  has  been  a  little  like  my 
own." 

"  Were  you  selected  for  the  priesthood  ?  " 


Learning  New  Ethics  65 

"Ma  foi,  no!  My  parents  wished  me  to  become  a  phy- 
sician. My  father  was  one  of  the  most  prominent  physicians 
in  Brussels  and  it  was  natural  to  suppose  that  his  only  son 
should  follow  his  profession.  The  idea  was  instilled  into  me 
from  boyhood;  in  fact  I  doubt  if  my  parents  even  gave  a 
thought  but  that  it  would  be  my  own  choice." 

"  And  you  did  not  care  for  it?  " 

"  No,  I  loved  art.  I  made  pictures  as  early  as  my  nursery 
days  and  at  school  when  I  had  won  the  first  prize  for  drawing, 
I  was  allowed  to  take  private  lessons  of  a  professor.  He 
took  much  interest  in  my  work  and  I  used  to  go  about  with 
him  visiting  among  artists  in  their  studios,  which  was  my  great 
amusement.  Then  came  the  time  for  me  to  enter  the  Medical 
College,  which  I  did  reluctantly." 

Fauvel  threw  away  his  cigarette,  and  stretched  out  in  his 
chair  and  continued : — "  During  those  years,  as  you  may  know, 
my  heart  was  not  in  my  studies  and  many  a  day  when  I  was 
in  the  dissecting-room  with  the  subject  before  me  I  have  wished 
instead  that  I  were  a  student  in  the  life  class  at  the  Sorbonne. 
But  I  persevered  for  my  father's  sake  and  received  my  diploma. 
I  practiced  with  him  for  five  years,  but  I  knew  I  would  never 
amount  to  anything  in  that  profession.  I  could  be  a  careful, 
conscientious  physician,  but  no  more.  About  that  time  I  had 
some  trouble,  a  love  affair.  I  was  young  and  it  struck  hard. 
Then  I  knew  I  must  make  a  break  if  I  were  ever  to  rise  from 
the  staggering  effect  of  that  blow.  My  life  was  my  own  and 
not  my  father's  and  I  longed  for  my  old,  congenial,  interesting 
work  that  would  absorb  all  other  thoughts." 

Fauvel  paused.  The  macaw  that  had  been  quiet  and  sleepy 
most  of  the  afternoon  now  began  to  flap  its  wings  and  make 
harsh  sounds. 

"  Come,  Fleurette,  come,"  said  Fauvel,  addressing  the  bird 
in  French,  "  come  cherie"  and  the  brilliant  creature  fluttered 
across  the  room  and  perched  on  its  master's  arm. 

"  And  what  did  your  father  say,  Signore,  was  he  angry?  " 


66  A  Cry  of  Youth 

"  He  was  hurt,  not  angry,  and  greatly  disappointed.  I  went 
at  once  to  Paris  and  entered  the  Julian  Academy  and  have 
never  regretted  the  step.  Oh,  I  find  my  former  profession 
very  useful  at  times."  He  smiled  and  stroked  the  bird's  plum- 
age as  he  talked.  "  My  thorough  knowledge  of  anatomy,  for 
instance,  when  I  do  figures,  for  which  I  care  most  of  all.  And 
again  this  winter  when  I  was  at  my  old  fortress  in  the  moun- 
tains there  was  a  bad  gun-shot  accident  to  a  peasant;  there  are 
no  doctors  for  miles  around.  I  dressed  his  wounds  and  watched 
him  for  several  days.  While  I  was  in  attendance  his  wife 
was  confined  and  I  delivered  her  of  twins.  Among  the 
contadini  I  soon  had  a  long  list  of  patients.  They  called  me 
1  Signor  Dottore  '  up  there." 

"  Then  you  have  two  professions,"  said  Estori.  "  I  shall 
have  to  say  '  Professore-Dottore-Artista '  after  this." 

"  Call  me  Fauvel,  Meurice,  what  you  like.  I  have  told 
you  this  to  show  you  that  a  man  may  change  his  career  and 
be  happy  and  successful,  even  against  the  wishes  of  his  family. 
You  can  do  likewise." 

Estori  dropped  his  lounging  position  and  straightened  him- 
self. "  With  me  it  is  different,"  he  said.  "  I  have  taken 
vows." 

"  You  are  only  twenty-two  years  old ;  I  consider  it  was  the 
height  of  cruelty  to  have  made  you  take  vows,  even  though 
not  priestly  ones." 

"  I  have  not  complained,"  he  said  rising.  "  I  think  you 
are  anti-clerical,  Signor  Fauvel,  and  in  that  case  I  cannot  visit 
you  again." 

'  Not  a  bit  of  it.  Sit  down,  my  dear  fellow.  I  have  good 
friends  among  the  clergy.  I  have  an  uncle  a  Bishop.  I  was 
born  in  the  faith  the  same  as  yourself,  only  I  have  advanced 
in  thought.  Holy  Orders  are  well  and  good  for  some  men, 
if  they  choose  to  go  into  them  when  they  are  old  enough  to 
weigh  the  matter,  but  not  for  you  —  you  are  making  a  mis- 
take." 


Learning  New  Ethics  67 

Estori  was  still  standing  and  had  taken  up  his  old-fashioned 
valise. 

"  The  circumstances,  Signore,"  he  said  firmly, —  and  his  eyes 
met  those  of  the  artist  in  a  resolute  gaze, — "  are  not  the  same. 
You  were  free  to  begin  with;  you  had  only  to  consider 
your  duty  to  your  father.  I  have  to  consider  my  duty  to 
God." 

It  might  have  been  the  young  Archangel  Michael,  who 
stood  there  so  rigidly  in  all  his  dignity.  The  coarse  habit 
was  unnoticed,  for  the  splendid  juvenile  form  seemed  invested 
with  a  majesty  of  its  own,  and  Fauvel  wondered  if  there  were 
any  look  in  the  world  so  hard  as  that  of  upright  youth,  with 
its  terrible  unconscious  directness;  the  look  of  youth  that  sees 
only  in  the  present,  too  confident  to  doubt  or  fear,  youth  so 
encased  in  an  undented  coat  of  mail  that  it  has  no  realization 
of  either  virtue  or  sin. 

Fauvel  set  the  bird  on  the  arm  of  the  chair  and  rose,  and 
placing  his  hands  on  the  shoulders  of  Estori  looked  him  in 
the  eyes. 

"  Amico  mio"  *  he  said,  "  have  you  ever  considered  the  duty 
of  God  to  you?  " 

'*  I  do  not  understand." 

"  The  Being  you  call  God  sent  you  into  the  world.  You 
are  here  through  no  will  of  your  own.  He  has  endowed  you 
with  rare  gifts,  unusual  physical  beauty  first  of  all,  you  must 
know  that?  God  is  your  Heavenly  Father,  you  say;  you  are 
His  child,  He  wishes  you  to  be  happy.  The  happiness  of  his 
children  is  the  wish  of  every  true  father.  Now  I  have  thought 
from  the  moment  I  saw  you  that  yo  .  were  wearing  that  habit 
from  no  choice  of  your  own,  merely  from  environment  and 
the  influence  of  other  minds  working  upon  yours.  Nor  do 
I  believe  that  God  would  be  offended  at  your  casting  it  off, 
if  it  would  make  you  happier  to  do  so." 

"  I  must  go  now,"  Estori  said,  breaking  from  him. 

*  My  friend. 


68  A  Cry  of  Youth 

"  Stop  a  bit  —  what  name  goes  with  the  verses,  '  Leone  ?  ' ' 

"  As  you  choose,  Signore." 

"  And  about  the  English  lessons?  I  think  I  have  two  pupils 
for  your  friend." 

"  That  is  very  kind,"  Estori  said  gratefully,  and  held  out 
his  hand. 

"  Come  in  the  middle  of  the  week,"  Fauvel  continued,  "  and 
then  I'll  let  you  know  definitely;  I  will  send  off  a  letter  to 
the  editor  in  Florence  to-night." 

"  Thank  you,  Signore." 

When  he  was  gone,  Fauvel  lighted  another  cigarette  and 
went  into  the  adjoining  room  to  dress  for  an  engagement  at 
the  Grand  Hotel,  while  Estori  sauntered  through  the  Piazza. 
Barberini  and  down  the  Via  Tritone,  with  those  words  in 
his  ears,  "  Have  you  ever  thought  of  the  duty  of  God  to  you  ? 
You  are  His  child,  and  He  wishes  you  to  be  happy." 

As  he  crossed  the  Piazza.  Colonna  something  the  old  Prince 
had  said  to  him  that  first  day  he  had  been  summoned  to  his 
bedside,  now  recurred  to  his  mind.  "  I  fear  a  great  injustice 
has  been  done  you,  my  dear  young  cousin,"  he  had  whispered ; 
"  God  grant  that  what  is  may  be  for  the  best.  You  were  a 
fatherless  boy  and  it  was  my  duty  to  have  seen  more  after 
your  interests.  Can  you  forgive  an  old  man's  neglect  ?  "  And 
he  had  assured  him  he  knew  of  nothing  to  forgive,  but  should 
there  have  been  anything  he  had  his  forgiveness  willingly. 

Approaching  the  Palazzo  Estori  he  heard  a  bell  tolling,  and 
passing  through  the  arched  entrance  he  was  surprised  to  find 
no  portiere  at  his  post.  Crossing  the  old  moss-grown  court- 
yard, he  ascended  a  flight  of  marble  stairs  to  the  first  landing. 
The  great  door  was  ajar,  he  pushed  it  open  and  entered  the 
antechamber  emblazoned  with  the  shield  and  coat  of  arms  of 
the  Estoris.  No  footman  was  in  his  customary  place.  He 
walked  through  room  after  room,  all  deserted,  until  he  came 
to  a  corridor  that  led  to  the  apartments  of  the  Prince.  There 
he  found  a  group  of  servants  weeping. 


Learning"  New  Ethics  69 

"  Hasten,  hasten,  Don  Felice,"  said  the  old  butler,  "  or  you 
will  be  too  late.  His  Excellency,  my  dear  master,  became 
suddenly  worse  at  noon;  he  has  received  the  last  sacrament;  he 
is  dying." 

Estori  lifted  the  rich  velvet  curtain  and  stepped  into  the  room. 
The  old  man  was  the  color  of  yellow  ivory,  and  was  breathing 
feebly  and  at  long  intervals.  Daniele  Estori  was  sobbing 
aloud  as  he  knelt  with  his  wife  close  beside  the  bed,  while 
a  great  Cardinal,  his  father's  life-long  friend,  was  repeating 
the  prayers  for  a  departing  soul.  Fra  Felice  crossed  to  the 
bedside  and  knelt  with  his  cousins.  As  he  did  so  the  breathing 
ceased.  The  Cardinal  raised  his  hand  and  said, 

"  Go  forth,  Christian  soul,  from  this  world,  in  the  name 
of  the  Father  and  of  the  Son  and  of  the  Holy  Ghost." 


CHAPTER  VII 


" —  I  never  lived  till  now. 
I  have  no  past  where  thou  art  not, 
My  only  life  art  thou." 

"  How  good  it  is  to  see  you  again,  cara  Signorina !  " 

Giacinta,  the  maid  who  had  been  kind  to  Margaret  in  her 
first  days  in  Rome,  was  come  to  see  the  little  American  lady. 

"  It  is  equally  good  to  see  you,  dear  Giacinta,"  said  Margaret. 
"  Sit  down  in  that  big  chair  and  be  quite  comfortable,"  and 
she  gently  pushed  Giacinta  into  the  only  available  chair  and 
seated  herself  upon  the  bed.  She  had  found  a  small  room  in 
the  Pension  Luella  which  had  been  recommended  by  the 
Contessa  Melzi  where  a  young  woman  might  board  alone 
with  propriety.  Margaret's  trunks  took  up  most  of  the  space 
and  the  other  chair  was  filled  with  articles  of  the  expensive 
trousseau  provided  by  Cousin  Cornelia  Ward.  "  I  came  here 
yesterday,"  she  continued,  "  and  am  in  the  act  of  unpacking. 
Little  Enrichetta  Melzi  has  gone  home  to  her  parents  and  the 
contessa  has  nothing  further  for  me  to  do;  but  I  have  hopes 
of  another  position  as  companion  to  a  friend  of  hers  who  is 
going  to  Switzerland  for  the  summer.  In  the  meantime  I 
have  two  months  to  fill  in.  The  nuns  at  the  Trinita  have 
found  me  an  engagement  to  read  aloud  to  a  blind  lady,  and 
I  think  I  can  manage  to  get  some  pupils  for  English  lessons." 

"  But  Signorina,  you  are  too  young  and  pretty  to  go  about 
alone." 

"  Giacinta,  you  must  understand  that  American  girls  are 
not  like  Italians.  We  are  much  more  independent.  Now  tell 
me  about  Madame,  and  the  young  ladies,  and  yourself." 

"  La  Kotrell  and  the  Signorine,"  Giacinta  answered,  "  left 
the  city  the  first  of  April,  and  I  am  living  with  my  brother 

70 


The  Weaving  of  the  Fates        71 

who  has  a  book-shop  outside  the  Porta  Pia.  I  don't  care  to 
take  a  situation  just  yet,  but  I  will  do  any  work  for  you, 
Signorina.  Let  me  take  your  linen;  I  can  have  it  washed 
much  cheaper  than  you  can.  I  will  mend  it  and  run  in  the 
ribbons.  You  shall  see." 

"  Oh,  that  will  be  a  delightful  arrangement,"  said  Margaret, 
"  and  you  will  come  every  week  and  we  can  have  nice  talks." 

When  Giacinta  had  departed  Margaret  took  a  note  from 
her  bureau  drawer  and  reread  it. 

Dearest  Signorina: 

With  what  joy  I  have  received  the  news  that  you  are  once  more 
free.  Can  you  meet  me  to-morrow  morning  at  the  house  of  old 
Assunta  ?  If  you  answer  at  once  I  will  receive  your  note  this  evening. 
Do  not  disappoint  me.  I  am  all  impatience  to  see  you. 

Yours, 

LEONE. 

The  resolution  she  had  made  before  Christmas  not  to  see 
Fra  Felice  again  had  entirely  vanished.  How  could  she  be 
blamed  for  clinging  to  the  only  friend  she  had  ?  The  contessa 
had  been  pleasant  but  patronizing,  had  made  her  feel  that 
she  was  not  an  equal,  since  she  was  in  employment,  Margaret 
supposed,  and  she  had  suffered  in  consequence.  And  when 
she  saw  how  some  of  the  titled  people  ran  after  rich  Americans 
whom  her  Cousin  Cornelia  would  not  have  inside  her  doors, 
that  also  made  bitterness  in  her  heart.  Fra  Felice  was  the  only 
real  true  friend  she  had,  and  she  could  not,  she  could  not 
under  the  circumstances,  be  expected  to  give  him  up.  Besides, 
every  one  else  she  knew  was  old,  and  he  was  young  —  young 
like  herself. 

It  was  almost  in  a  defiant  spirit  that  she  found  her  way 
the  next  morning  to  old  Assunta's,  and  felt  again  his  strong 
hand-clasp,  and  was  looking  into  his  beautiful  face. 

Assunta  was  in  a  corner  of  her  room  kneading  black  bread, 
and  after  her  first  respectful  greetings  turned  her  back  and 
paid  no  more  attention  to  them. 


72  A  Cry  of  Youth 

Estori  asked  Margaret  questions  concerning  her  plans.  Her 
mother  was  willing  she  should  stay  in  Italy,  she  told  him,  if 
she  could  take  care  of  herself,  and  felt  relief  in  knowing  that 
the  Nuns  were  watching  over  her.  She  had  never  taught 
any  one,  but  she  was  sure  she  could,  and  so  on,  conversing 
quite  fluently;  and  he  was  surprised  to  find  her  Italian  so 
much  improved. 

Then  he  spoke  of  her  letters  and  what  a  pleasure  they  had 
been  to  him. 

"Are  you  sure  it  is  safe  for  me  to  write  you  freely?"  she 
asked. 

"  Perfectly,"  he  answered,  and  explained  how  her  letters 
were  dropped  into  the  chestnut  tree  by  Jacopo,  the  postman. 

"  Isn't  that  deceiving  your  Superior?  " 

"  I  have  never  been  forbidden  to  receive  your  letters,"  he 
laughed  softly. 

He  was  the  strangest  creature  and  the  most  interesting  she 
had  ever  known.  Evidently  he  did  not  see  the  slightest  harm 
in  establishing  a  private  post-office  and  outwitting  his  Superior. 
To  her  mind  deceit  was  deceit.  She  might  deceive  but  she 
would  recognize  the  wrong.  His  conscience  apparently  was 
perfectly  clear.  He  seemed  to  know  she  was  not  satisfied,  for 
he  said :  "  There  is  no  harm  in  your  letters,  Signorina,  they 
are  beautiful  and  good  and  they  make  me  very  happy.  I  am 
very  dear  to  the  Father  Superior  and  he  is  glad  when  I  am 
happy.  If  I  were  receiving  wicked  letters,  from  a  wicked 
person,  that  would  be  different.  Be  tranquil,  it  is  all 
right." 

Assunta  finished  her  bread,  dried  her  hands,  said  something 
to  Estori  in  rapid  Italian  which  Margaret  could  not  under- 
stand and  left  the  room,  closing  the  door  after  her.  "  She 
has  gone  to  the  shop  for  a  moment,"  he  explained. 

"  I  must  go,"  said  Margaret,  consulting  her  watch. 

"  No,  no,"  he  said,  "  we  have  not  as  yet  planned  for  to- 
morrow." 


The  Weaving  of  the  Fates        73 

"To-morrow?" 

"  Yes,  I  must  see  you  every  day,  Signorina." 

"  Oh,  that  is  impossible,"  she  said  quickly. 

He  took  her  hand.  "  Margherita,"  he  said,  "  I  must  see 
you  every  day.  No,  do  not  shake  your  head;  do  you  know," 
and  his  voice  became  lower  and  softer,  "  I  think  of  you  all 
day,  I  dream  of  you  by  night.  I  wonder  how  I  ever  lived 
before  I  knew  you ;  the  day  I  met  you  seems  to  be  the  day  that 
I  was  born." 

"  Don't,"  she  said,  in  a  frightened  tone  trying  to  draw  away 
her  hand,  "  you  must  not  talk  like  this;  please  don't." 

But  he  held  it  tightly.  "  Margherita,  I  must  see  you  every 
day.  If  you  will  not  meet  me  then  I  shall  stand  near  your 
house  and  watch  you  come  out."  His  strange  eyes  glowed 
like  topaz,  and  his  face  was  so  near  to  hers  that  she  could 
feel  his  warm  breath  on  her  cheek. 

"  Oh,  you  must  not  say  such  things,  you  must  not."  She 
whispered  in  alarm.  But  before  she  left  Estori  had  extracted 
a  promise  from  her  to  meet  him  at  Donna  Bianca's  the  follow- 
ing afternoon,  and  she  had  yielded. 

After  she  had  gone  Estori  went  to  call  upon  the  artist  whom 
he  found  at  his  breakfast.  Fauvel  gave  him  a  most  cordial 
welcome  and  made  him  sit  down  at  the  table. 

"  I  am  very  well  satisfied  with  myself,"  Fauvel  said,  "  I 
have  sold  three  pictures.  I  hope  you  feel  in  as  good  a  humor 
as  I  do,  but  I  don't  believe  you  do,"  he  added,  looking  at 
Estori  closely. 

"Do  you  know  any  Americans?"  Estori  asked.  "Amer- 
icans from  the  United  States,  I  mean?  " 

"  Yes,"  replied  the  artist,  "  I  know  several  men  of  my  pro- 
fession from  the  United  States,  and  I  am  often  invited  to  the 
Anglo-American  Club." 

"  But  you  do  not  speak  English?  " 

"  No,  but  they  mostly  speak  French,  and  some  of  them  very 
good  Italian.  Why  do  you  ask?  " 


74  A  Cry  of  Youth 

"  Because,"  said  Estori,  "  I  know  a  young  girl,  a  young 
lady  from  New  York  and  I  cannot  make  her  out." 

"How  old  is  she?" 

"Nineteen." 

"What  is  she  like?" 

"  She  is  a  lady,  an  aristocrat,  that  I  know.  If  she  were 
one  of  us  I  should  say  she  was  of  noble  birth,  and  yet  she  is 
here  entirely  alone." 

"Pretty?" 

"  Beautiful." 

"  Some  American  adventuress  probably,  come  to  try  her  luck 
in  Italy,"  said  Fauvel. 

"  Oh,  no,  no,"  exclaimed  Estori  indignantly,  "  she  is  nothing 
of  the  sort.  She  is  quiet  and  modest  and  good.  Women  of 
that  stamp  have  money,  have  they  not?  This  one  is  poor.  It 
is  she  for  whom  I  asked  your  assistance  in  finding  pupils." 

"  Ah,"  said  Fauvel,  (<  I  thought  it  was  some  man  who  gave 
English  lessons,  this  friend  you  were  so  anxious  to  help ;  so  it  is 
a  girl?" 

Estori  colored.  "  A  young  lady,"  he  corrected,  "  and  I  want 
to  help  her,  for  she  has  no  one  but  me." 

"How  is  that?" 

"  Oh,  she  has  a  few  acquaintances,"  he  explained,  "  but  the 
ladies  with  whom  she  came  from  her  own  land  have  left  Rome. 
She  has  been  companion  to  the  granddaughter  of  the  Contessa 
Melzi,  but  she  has  left  her  now." 

"  Oh,  I  see,"  said  Fauvel.  "  She  has  been  a  sort  of  dame  de 
compagnie  to  the  little  Melzi  ?  " 

"  Precisely." 

"  And  you  are  her  self-appointed  guardian,"  he  added  smiling. 
"  But  what  is  the  mystery  about  her,  the  part  you  do  not  under- 
stand?" 

"  That  her  relatives,  in  the  United  States,  should  allow  her  to 
work  like  this  when  without  a  doubt  they  are  rich.  My  god- 
mother, Donna  Bianca  Salviate,  wonders  the  same." 


The  Weaving"  of  the  Fates        75 

"  Well,"  replied  Fauvel,  "  you  must  know  that  the  people 
of  the  United  States  are  very  different  from  us  Europeans, 
even  from  the  English.  Why  there's  as  much  difference 
between  an  Englishman  and  an  American  as  there  is  between 
an  acorn  and  a  chestnut.  They  do  not  take  the  same  care  of 
their  young  women  as  we  do  of  ours;  and  again  the  American 
girl  has  a  will  of  her  own.  She  is  very  independent.  They 
are  wonderful  women  too;  they  will  not  be  kept  in  the  back- 
ground. As  a  rule  they  are  pretty  and  clever  and  sharp. 
Your  young  friend  may  have  quarreled  with  her  family  and 
prefers  to  live  away  from  home  even  if  she  has  to  support  her- 
self." 

"  Perhaps  you  are  right,  Signer  Fauvel.  She  has  told  me 
that  something  happened  at  home  to  make  her  unhappy  and 
she  does  not  wish  to  go  back.  You  say  you  really  have  some 
pupils?" 

"  Yes,  two  little  sons  of  Madame  Tardieu.  They  are  going 
to  school  in  England  next  winter  and  speak  some  English 
already.  Their  mother  is  a  pupil  of  mine  and  an  old  friend. 
That  small  copy  of  Titian's  '  Sacred  and  Profane  Love '  in 
the  studio  was  done  by  her.  If  you  will  bring  Mademoiselle, 
your  friend,  to  see  me,  so  that  she  may  tell  me  her  terms, 
etc.,  I  will  arrange  an  interview  for  her  with  Madame 
Tardieu." 

"  Oh,  thank  you!     How  very  kind  you  are,  Signore." 

"  Not  at  all,"  said  Fauvel,  "  I  believe  in  our  helping  one 
another."  Then  he  took  some  paper  money  out  of  his  pocket 
and  handed  Estori  a  fifty  lire  note.  "  I  told  you  a  few  moments 
ago  that  I  had  sold  three  pictures;  and  it  is  my  custom  when- 
ever I  am  so  fortunate,  to  give  something  in  charity.  I  fancy 
you  will  know  where  to  place  this  better  than  I,  so  I  am  going 
to  ask  you  to  be  my  almoner." 

" Signore  mio,  how  good,  how  generous  you  are;  I  know 
so  many  who  are  suffering  and  I  cannot  help  them  all."  And 
he  thought  with  relief  of  how  the  rent  and  some  comforts 


76  A  Cry  of  Youth 

would  be  now  assured  to  old  Assunta  for  many  months. 
"  Grazie  tante." 

"  I  do  not  want  any  thanks,"  Fauvel  said.  "  Come  soon 
and  bring  the  young  lady.  I  shall  be  here  every  day  now,  for 
the  light  is  good  until  late  in  the  afternoon.  I  expect  to  hear 
any  day  from  that  editor  in  Florence  and  by  the  way,  "  he 
added  as  Estori  started  to  go,  "  was  that  Prince  Estori  who 
died  a  few  weeks  ago  any  relation  of  yours?  " 

"  He  was  my  father's  cousin,"  he  answered.  "  Oh,  you 
should  have  been  at  the  Solemn  Requiem  at  Sant'  Andrea  della 
Vale.  Such  flowers,  such  beautiful  music!  Steffanini  from 
the  Lateran  sang  the  solos,  and  I  served  the  Cardinal  at  the 
Mass  — I." 

Fauvel  accompanied  his  guest  to  the  top  of  the  stairs,  and 
watched  him  as  he  ran  down  lightly. 

"  I  understand  now,"  he  said  to  himself,  "  from  whence 
comes  his  fine,  proud  carriage  and  his  hauteur;  the  blood  of 
the  ancient  Roman  nobility  flows  in  his  veins,  but  his  features 
are  not  Roman,  they  are  too  perfect  —  I  wonder  who  his 
mother  was?  " 

Donna  Bianca  and  Margaret  had  a  little  time  for  conversa- 
tion the  next  afternoon  before  Fra  Felice  came  in  and  the  lady 
confided  to  her  how  indignant  she  was  that  the  old  Prince 
had  left  no  legacy  to  "  her  boy,"  as  she  called  him,  though  of 
course  now  it  would  become  the  common  property  of  the  Order, 
as  he  "  was  professed."  She  also  told  her  that  the  Marchese 
Pallavicino  had  been  appointed  Consul  to  Algiers,  and  would 
soon  take  his  departure  with  his  family,  and  wondered  if  the 
Marchesa  would  see  her  son  before  she  went  away. 

Margaret  left  the  house  first  but  had  only  gone  a  short 
distance  when  she  heard  soft  footsteps  behind  her  and  saw 
Estori  had  followed. 

"  Signorina,"  he  said,  "  why  not  come  to  my  friend  the  artist 
now?  His  place  is  on  your  way  home  and  I  am  not  due  at 
the  Convent  for  an  hour." 


The  Weaving-  of  the  Fates        77 

"  Very  well,"  she  replied.  She  had  nothing  to  do  and  it 
was  too  fine  a  day  to  go  indoors. 

"  I  will  go  ahead,"  he  said,  "  and  you  follow." 

So  they  proceeded  down  the  Via  Pansiperna,  the  straight, 
youthful  figure  in  the  brown  habit  a  few  yards  ahead,  and  the 
slight  girlish  one  behind,  and  no  other  word  was  exchanged 
until  Estori  stopped  at  Fauvel's  door  in  the  Vicolo  San  Nicola 
da  Tolentino  and  five  minutes  after  Margaret  was  introduced 
to  il  Signore  Artista,  and  was  not  surprised  to  find  he  had 
blond  hair,  and  a  blond  beard,  and  was  the  man  to  whom  she 
had  spoken  that  day  in  December,  on  the  Palatine,  and  had 
noticed  again  on  Christmas  night. 

"  We  have  met  before,  Mademoiselle,"  Fauvel  said  cor- 
dially. 

"  Yes,  Monsieur,  and  now  I  see  it  is  to  you  that  I  owe  my 
friendship  with  Fra  Felice." 

Fauvel  had  spoken  in  French,  remembering  that  she  had 
addressed  him  in  that  language  as  he  had  sat  sketching  the 
convent  wall  and  Estori  looked  in  a  puzzled  manner  from 
one  to  the  other,  not  understanding  and  yet  seeing  they  were 
not  strangers;  when  they  explained,  he  said,  "  So  Signore,  you 
and  the  Signorina  are  older  friends  than  she  and  I  ?  "  And 
then  Margaret  had  to  explain  the  manner  of  her  meeting  with 
the  other  and  how  she  had  lost  her  way,  how  Fra  Felice  had 
taken  her  back  to  town,  and  their  subsequent  friendship. 

"  Quite  a  little  romance,"  Fauvel  said  to  himself,  as  he 
watched  them  together  and  noted  how  Estori's  color  came  and 
went  every  time  Margaret  addressed  him;  "there's  a  good 
share  of  personal  interest  here,  not  altogether  benevolence  in 
wishing  to  help  her."  She  had  some  very  good  points,  he 
thought,  as  he  took  her  in.  She  was  the  acme  of  refinement ;  her 
voice  was  low  and  well  placed  and  her  skin  was  wonderful  in  its 
whiteness  and  texture  and  with  her  chestnut  brown  hair  and 
eyes  made  a  pleasing  combination.  He  asked  her  about  her 
lessons  and  told  her  that  Madame  Tardieu  would  see  her 


78  A  Cry  of  Youth 

any  morning,  and  found  the  little  American  spoke  intelligently, 
and  in  excellent  French;  and  Estori  amused  himself  with  the 
macaw  while  they  conversed. 

When  they  were  gone  Fauvel  sat  down  in  his  great  arm- 
chair and  lighted  a  cigarette. 

"  So  she  is  the  '  Lonely  Rose '  of  his  poem,"  he  soliloquized. 
"  My  poor,  handsome,  ingenuous  Estori.  How  strange  that 
I  should  have  thrown  them  together.  Trouble  is  destined  to 
come  of  this,"  he  thought,  then  exclaimed  half  aloud:  "Ma 
foil  How  cruel  fate  is  to  some  of  us!  " 


CHAPTER  VIII 

"  AMORE  MIO !  " 

Oh  cease  to  affirm  that  man  since  his  birth 
From  Adam  till  now  has  with  wretchedness  strove; 
Some  portion  of  Paradise  still  is  on  earth 
And  Eden  revives  in  the  first  kiss  of  love. 

BYRON. 

At  first  it  had  seemed  delightful  to  Margaret  to  be  absolutely 
free,  but  two  weeks  had  passed  and  the  novelty  had  worn  off. 
She  was  very  lonely  at  times  and  when  she  appeared  in  the 
evenings  at  dinner,  daintily  gowned,  some  of  the  guests  at 
the  Pension  Luella  would  look  askance  at  her.  Why  should 
a  girl  earning  her  own  living  have  such  costly  attire.  Every 
other  young  woman  in  the  house  had  a  mother,  father,  aunt 
or  some  one  with  her  and  she  was  alone,  without  a  soul  to 
care  how  she  came  or  went. 

She  found  that  Madame  Tardieu  would  give  no  more  than 
fifty  cents  an  hour  for  the  English  lessons  of  her  little  boys; 
she  taught  them  for  an  hour  twice  a  week,  which  was  10  lire. 
She  received  15  lire  a  week  for  reading  each  morning  to  the 
blind  lady,  making  25  lire  altogether  and  it  cost  her  75  lire 
a  week  for  her  board,  besides  incidental  expenses.  She  had 
saved  nearly  all  of  her  salary,  Donna  Bianca  was  trying  to 
find  her  more  pupils,  also  the  nuns,  and  Monsieur  Fauvel.  If 
she  could  only  hold  out  until  June,  she  need  not  worry. 

She  wrote  home  cheerful  letters;  that  she  had  fallen  in  love 
with  this  ugly-beautiful,  ancient-modern  city,  had  made  "  splen- 
did "  friends,  and  her  prospects  were  excellent. 

Almost  every  day  she  and  Estori  managed  to  meet  some- 
where for  a  few  moments.  At  Assunta's  or  at  the  Piazza 
Venezia  when  she  would  go  to  the  bank  for  her  mail.  At 
these  times  Estori  would  watch  for  her,  standing  in  the  shadow 

79 


80  A  Cry  of  Youth 

of  the  old  castellated  Venetian  Palace;  then  Margaret  would 
come  from  the  bank,  cross  the  street  to  where  she  saw  a  brown 
figure  waiting  and  without  exchanging  a  word  or  look  they 
would  walk  as  strangers  until  safe  within  the  church  of  San 
Marco  just  around  the  corner. 

San  Marco  was  an  excellent  place  to  meet.  It  is  out  of 
the  way,  and  scarcely  even  a  tourist  is  seen,  as  there  is  nothing 
of  any  particular  interest  except  the  early  Christian  inscriptions 
outside,  which  sometimes  attract  scholars;  but  for  the  most 
part  it  is  empty,  save  an  occasional  pious  person  intent  on  his 
prayers.  Here  they  might  talk  without  being  conspicuous  and 
plan  where  and  how  they  could  meet  the  next  day  and  if  any- 
thing should  prevent,  then  they  could  write.  Many  little 
perfumed  notes  found  their  way  into  the  chestnut  tree  and 
after  them  coins  into  the  pockets  of  Jacopo. 

Once  Margaret  had  said  to  him,  "  Do  you  think  it  is  right 
for  us  to  meet  as  we  do?  "  And  he  had  replied  in  his  naive, 
innocent  way,  "Why  not,  whom  are  we  harming?"  True, 
they  were  harming  no  one  and  she  said  nothing  more. 

She  was  growing  anxious  as  the  days  wore  on.  What  if 
her  money  should  give  out  before  she  secured  another  position 
or  found  pupils  enough  to  meet  her  expenses?  Every  day  she 
went  into  the  Piazza  di  Spagna  to  the  Bureau  of  Requirements 
and  to  the  English  Library  where  the  ladies  in  charge  some- 
times knew  of  pupils  to  be  had,  or  positions  to  be  filled  and 
though  they  assured  her  they  had  not  forgotten  her  nothing 
ever  came  of  it.  She  found  there  was  a  great  prejudice  in 
Rome  against  the  English  of  Americans  and  it  was  almost 
impossible  to  persuade  an  Italian  to  take  lessons  of  one. 

One  afternoon  she  had  made  her  rounds  as  usual  without 
success  and  her  anxiety  was  turning  to  dread.  She  realized 
that  it  was  too  expensive  for  her  at  the  Luella  and  that  she 
must  make  a  change.  She  knew  there  were  plenty  of  convent 
pensions,  with  moderate  terms  and  poor  food,  where  young 
ladies  might  board  and  be  under  the  protection  of  the  nuns, 


"Amore  Mio/fi  81 

but  just  now  that  atmosphere  was  repellent  to  her.  If  there 
were  no  convents  or  monasteries  in  existence  Estori  would  be 
free  to  walk  with  her,  visit  her  and  care  for  her  openly;  how 
easily  then  all  her  difficulties  could  be  solved.  That  he  was 
deeply  and  sincerely  attached  to  her  there  was  no  doubt.  She 
felt  it  in  the  strong  clasp  of  his  hand,  she  read  it  in  the  depth 
of  his  eyes,  she  would  have  known  it  from  the  happy  look  that 
lighted  his  face  whenever  he  saw  her,  even  if  those  unguarded 
words  spoken  in  the  Via  dei  Serpenti  has  never  escaped  his 
lips. 

And  she  —  first  of  all  there  was  a  qualm  of  conscience  that 
was  unpleasant.  She  loved  his  beauty.  It  was  a  delight  to 
feast  her  eyes  on  his  wonderful,  changeful  face,  one  moment 
rapt  in  a  spiritual  expression,  the  next  aglow  with  radiant 
smiles,  then  dark  and  fiery,  or  sweet  and  tender.  Each  day 
his  society  was  becoming  more  necessary  to  her  and  this  after- 
noon having  been  told  again  that  there  were  no  prospects  ahead 
she  left  the  Piazza  di  Spagna  behind  her  with  a  troubled  spirit 
and  walked  down  the  Via  Condotti  with  its  fascinating  shops. 
She  did  not  stop  to  look  in  any  of  the  windows  but  hurried  on 
and  turned  into  the  Corso,  which  was  crowded  as  usual  at  that 
time. 

The  papers  were  just  out  and  the  newsboys  were  screaming 
"  11  Messaggiero,"  "  Giornale  d' Italia"  etc.,  at  the  top  of  their 
lungs.  Knots  of  men  of  the  leisure  class  in  front  of  the  cafes 
blocked  the  street  and  more  than  one  stared  at  her  and  mur- 
mured "  Carina,"  as  she  passed  and  followed  her  until  he 
saw  that  she  paid  no  attention  to  his  overtures.  Margaret 
had  never  before  walked  alone  on  the  Corso  at  this  hour.  It 
had  been  one  of  the  strict  rules  of  Mrs.  Kotrell  that  none  of 
the  young  ladies  should  be  seen  there  unattended.  But  to-day 
she  did  not  care,  she  neither  saw  nor  heard  anything  distinctly. 
She  was  too  anxious  to  notice  and  too  lonely  to  heed;  the 
very  crowds  intensified  her  loneliness  and  she  made  her  way 
through  them  with  only  her  goal,  San  Marco,  in  mind. 


82  A  Cry  of  Youth 

Finally  she  reached  the  Piazzo  Venezia  and  gave  a  quick 
glance  over  the  way.  She  saw  several  brown-habited  monks 
scattered  among  the  crowd.  Some  of  them  were  Capuchins 
with  their  long  beards  and  although  she  spied  two  or  three 
smooth-faced  Franciscans,  none  of  them  had  the  noble  bearing 
by  which  she  could  know  Estori  among  a  hundred.  Perhaps 
by  the  time  she  came  out  of  the  bank  he  would  be  in  his  accus- 
tomed place.  She  went  in  always  with  the  faint  hope  that 
Cousin  Cornelia  would  relent  and  write  her.  The  clerk  handed 
her  a  letter;  it  was  from  her  sister  Josephine.  She  came  out 
again  and  still  Estori  was  not  there.  She  was  greatly  dis- 
appointed, waited  ten  minutes  and  then  concluded  to  go  round 
to  the  church  and  perhaps  he  might  come  in.  Inside  she  took 
a  seat  beside  a  kneeling  bench  where  a  ray  of  afternoon  sun- 
shine was  streaming  from  a  window  high  above  her  and  opened 
her  letter.  It  was  was  characteristic  of  her  sister,  full  of  her 
OWM  affairs.  It  began  by  saying  she  was  the  happiest  woman 
in  the  world.  Her  husband's  grandmother  had  died  and  left 
him  heir  to  five  hundred  thousand  dollars  and  her  country 
residence  on  Long  Island,  which  they  intended  to  remodel. 
Little  Phil  and  baby  Alice  had  the  whooping  cough,  light 
cases;  she  was  anxious  but  not  worried.  They  were  glad  to 
hear  she  had  gotten  along  so  well  with  the  countess,  and  had 
another  position  in  view.  It  was  a  splendid  chance  to  perfect 
herself  in  Italian.  "  There  is  nothing  you  could  do  here," 
Josephine  wrote.  "  Mother  is  far  from  well,  and  you  would 
just  be  an  extra  burden  on  her.  Doctor  Parkham  says  she 
really  ought  to  give  up  and  rest;  but  she  cannot  afford  to, 
and  she  will  not  let  Phil  and  me  help  her,  and  she  is  too  proud 
to  accept  anything  more  from  Cousin  Cornelia  after  the  way 
you  acted.  Just  think,  you  would  be  a  rich  woman  now  with 
a  home  of  your  own,  if  you  had  not  been  such  a  little  fool." 

There  was  not  a  word  about  missing  her  or  any  sisterly  mes- 
sage. 

"  Oh,  Josephine,"  she  cried,  crushing  the  letter  in  her  hand, 


"Amore  Mio!"  83 

"  you  are  so  happy,  you  have  everything  you  want,  and  all 
this  money  coming  to  you,  while  I  have  nothing  and  I  need 
help  so  much !  "  Tears  came  to  her  eyes  as  she  contrasted  her 
lot  with  her  sister's.  Josephine  surrounded  by  affectionate  care 
and  love,  in  ease  and  comfort,  while  she  was  all  alone  in  a 
strange  country,  and  unprotected,  her  hard-worked,  brave  little 
mother  half  sick,  and  Cousin  Cornelia  with  her  millions,  hard 
as  a  stone;  and  now  even  Estori  had  forgotten.  The  tears 
rolled  down  her  cheeks.  She  leaned  forward  against  the  kneel- 
ing-bench  and  covered  her  face  with  her  handkerchief. 

"  Margherita:" 

The  word  was  whispered  so  low  that  she  thought  it  a  fancy 
of  her  brain. 

"  Margherita." 

She  looked  around  and  saw  the  young  Franciscan  standing 
behind  her.  He  had  stolen  up  with  his  soft,  panther-like  move- 
ments and  she  had  not  heard  a  sound ;  he  was  leaning  over  her. 

"  Margherita,"  he  said,  "  my  heart  told  me  I  would  find 
you  here.  I  was  detained  at  the  convent,  I  could  not  get 
away.  Forgive  me.  Oh  what,  what  is  the  matter,  you  are 
crying!  What  is  it?  Tell  me,  let  me  help  you.  You  shall 
tell  me  what  makes  you  unhappy;  it  tears  my  soul  out  to  see 
you  like  this;  Margherita,  don't  you  know  there  is  nothing  I 
would  not  do  for  you,  if  I  could,"  and  he  tried  to  raise  her. 

"  I  am  not  unhappy  now,"  she  answered,  looking  up  at  him 
with  a  smile ;  when  he  was  near  her  all  her  troubles  seemed  to 
diminish;  "  but  I  will  tell  you  something  that  worries  me:  I 
cannot  afford  to  live  at  the  Luella.  Do  you  know  of  any  pri- 
vate family  who  would  let  me  board  with  them  where  it  would 
not  cost  so  much  ?  " 

"  No,"  he  said  after  a  moment's  thought ;  "  there  are  plenty 
of  poor  places  which  are  not  good  enough  for  you,  and  the  bet- 
ter class  of  Italians  do  not  take  boarders  in  their  families ;  but 
stop,  there  is  Fauvel,  he  would  be  likely  to  know,  as  his  pupils 
board  all  over;  come,  let  us  go  and  ask  Fauvel." 


84  A  Cry  of  Youth 

Margaret  rose  and  they  walked  towards  the  door.  He 
paused  on  the  steps  that  led  up  to  the  vestibule  and  said :  "  All 
these  tears  because  you  have  to  find  other  quarters.  Stia  tran- 
quilla,  I  will  arrange  it.  To  me,  Margherita,  you  are  a  mys- 
tery." 

"  Yes,"  said  Fauvel,  "  I  think  I  know  what  you  want,"  when 
they  were  seated  in  his  "  lounge  "  and  had  told  him  the  object 
of  their  visit.  "  The  Scotti  family  right  next  door  have  rooms 
to  rent;  they  are  clean  and  comfortable.  I  roomed  there  my- 
self once;  I  cannot  say  about  the  meals,  as  I  always  went  over 
to  the  hotel.  The  Signora  is  a  motherly  sort  of  person  and 
will  do  all  she  can  for  you.  I  am  sorry,  Mademoiselle,"  he 
added  kindly,  "  that  things  are  not  looking  brighter  for  you." 

He  was  interested  in  Margaret  for  Estori's  sake  as  well  as 
her  own.  He  admired  her  good  breeding  and  taste  in  dress, 
but  could  not  understand  why  she  should  be  in  Europe  alone. 
There  was  nothing  of  the  Bohemian,  or  adventuress  about  her, 
and  she  had  not  come  to  cultivate  any  talent,  but  just  to  pick 
up  a  miserable  living  like  a  canary  bird  turned  out  of  its  cage. 

"  I  believe  I  can  manage  if  I  cut  down  my  expenses,"  she 
replied.  "  Do  you  think,  Monsieur,  they  would  take  me  for  50 
lire  a  week?  " 

"  They  ought  to,  but  you've  no  idea  how  prices  have  gone  up 
in  this  city;  why,  Rome  is  becoming  as  expensive  as  Paris! 
Perhaps  I  could  make  a  better  bargain  than  you  could,  Mad- 
emoiselle, I  shall  be  glad  to  serve  you.  There  is  the  Signora 
now,"  he  said,  glancing  out  of  a  window  that  faced  those  of  the 
next  building  at  right  angles;  "if  you  will  excuse  me,"  he 
added,  "  I  will  go  over  and  speak  with  her." 

"  Monsieur,  I  do  not  like  to  give  you  that  trouble,"  Margaret 
began. 

"It  is  not  the  slightest  trouble,  I  assure  you.  The  balconies 
connect;  I  need  not  even  go  downstairs." 

"How  kind  and  thoughtful  that  is!"  Margaret  said,  after 
he  had  gone. 


"Amore  Mio!"  85 

"  He  is  gentilissimo,"  Estori  answered.  "  He  is  one  of  the 
kindest  men  I  ever  knew.  He  believes  in  making  every  one 
happy." 

"  He  makes  beautiful  pictures,"  she  said ;  then  remembering 
the  conversation  of  the  artists  she  had  heard  on  Christmas 
night  when  Fauvel  had  told  his  companions  that  he  had  found 
a  prize  if  he  could  get  him,  she  asked:  "  Has  he  ever  painted 
you?" 

A  look  of  displeasure  darkened  his  face. 

"  No,  never.  I  have  no  money  to  pay  for  a  portrait  of  my- 
self, and  if  I  had  I  would  not  want  it." 

"  I  thought  you  might  have  sat  for  him  sometimes  as  a 
model." 

"  No,  indeed,"  he  said  scornfully;  "  it  is  a  common,  low  thing 
to  be  a  model." 

"  I  would  not  be  insulted  if  an  artist  asked  me  to  sit  for  him; 
I  should  consider  it  a  compliment." 

"  Signorina!  " 

"  Oh,  do  not  be  alarmed ;  I  will  never  have  an  opportunity. 
I  am  not  handsome  like  you.  If  I  were  in  your  place,  I  would 
certainly  let  Monsieur  Fauvel  paint  my  portrait.  I  believe 
he  will  be  a  great  artist  some  day.  I  hear  him  spoken  of,  and 
they  say  he  is  still  young." 

"  Fauvel  is  not  young;  he  must  be  forty." 

"  He  does  not  look  that  old,"  she  said;  "  he  has  not  a  gray 
hair  in  his  head."  Then  she  added  thoughtfully:  "What  will 
you  be,  I  wonder,  when  you  are  his  age  ?  " 

He  wrote  something  on  a  slip  of  paper  and  handed  it  to  her. 

"  Cardinal  Estori,"  she  read.  "  I  cannot  imagine  you  a 
Cardinal." 

"  Why  not?  There  have  been  Cardinals  of  my  name  before, 
and  my  own  people  as  well  as  my  step-father's  have  influence. 
Know,  Signorina,  that  the  house  of  Estori  has  always  been  a 
staunch  supporter  of  the  Vatican  and  received  the  '  Golden 
Rose  '  for  its  devotion  and  loyalty.  We  were  once  mighty, 


86  A  Cry  of  Youth 

but  we  are  dying  out.  My  father  was  an  only  son ;  I  am  his 
only  child.  My  second  cousin,  the  late  Prince,  left  an  only 
child,  and  he  has  but  one,  an  infant  son.  There  are  only  three 
of  us  left:  Daniele  Estori,  his  little  one,  and  myself.  But 
Daniele  will  have  other  children,  and  when  I  am  old  they  will 
come  to  see  their  cousin,  the  good  Cardinal  Estori,"  and  he 
smiled,  but  it  was  not  a  happy  smile. 

"  So  you  are  ambitious  to  be  a  Prince  of  the  Church,"  she 
said. 

"Yes."  He  thought  also  of  his  poetical  ambition,  but  did 
not  wish  to  mention  that  until  he  should  hear  from  the  editor 
in  Florence. 

They  were  both  silent  for  a  moment;  he  was  scribbling 
"  Cardinal  Estori  "  over  the  paper  in  an  absent-minded  way, 
and  Margaret  was  thinking.  She  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"  If  you  want  to  be  a  Cardinal,  you  would  be  wise  never  to 
meet  me  again." 

He  looked  up  with  a  questioning  expression. 

"  Yes,"  she  continued,  "  you  must  not  do  anything  that  your 
superiors  would  object  to  if  you  wish  to  be  advanced." 

He  flung  the  paper  and  pencil  upon  the  table,  saying:  "  I 
would  rather  see  you  than  be  the  Pope  of  Rome !  " 

"  I  am  not  worth  that,"  she  said  simply. 

"  You  are  worth  the  whole  world  to  me,  Margherita." 

Something  in  the  low,  intense  tone  startled  her.  She  rose 
quickly,  went  to  the  window  and  looked  down  into  the  court- 
yard where  some  rabbits  were  gamboling.  As  she  did  so  Jo- 
sephine's letter  fell  to  the  floor.  He  stooped  to  pick  it  up  and 
saw  the  stamp  of  the  United  States. 

"  Ha!  "  he  said,  "  I  know  what  has  made  you  cry;  it  was  bad 
news  from  your  home.  Before  the  sun  sets  you  shall  tell  me 
your  trouble.  Have  your  family  turned  you  off?  " 

"  No,  oh,  no,  not  exactly " 

"  Some  one  is  unkind  to  you  ?  " 

"Yes  —  no —    Oh,  I  don't  know  what  I'm  saying,"  she 


"Amore  Mio!"  87 

replied,  dropping  down  on  the  sofa  and  hiding  her  face  in  a 
cushion;  "never  mind  my  trouble." 

"  But  I  shall  mind,"  he  declared,  "  while  you  suffer.  Were 
you  engaged  to  be  married,  Signorina,  and  it  is  broken  off?  " 

"  I  broke  it  off,"  she  said,  "  and  that  is  why  my  sister,  and 
the  cousin  who  did  so  much  for  me,  are  angry.  He  was  very 
rich,  but  I  did  not  love  him;  I  could  not  bear  him.  So  I  ran 
away  just  before  the  marriage,  which  made  them  all  fearfully 
angry.  That  is  why  I  came  to  Rome,  to  get  away  from  it  all. 
That  is  why  they  will  do  nothing  to  help  me,  that  is  why,"  and 
she  gave  a  little  sob,  "  I  am  so  dreadfully  poor !  Oh,  but  don't 
let's  talk  of  it;  you  are  shielded  and  cared  for  in  your  convent 
life,  you  know  nothing  about  it." 

"  Ah "  he  groaned ;  "  I  only  know  I  love  you." 

Margaret  lifted  her  face. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  seating  himself  beside  her,  "  I  love  you,  Mar- 
gherita,  do  not  move  away ;  do  you  hear  me  ?  I  think  of  you  by 
day,  I  dream  of  you  by  night,  I  forget  everything  when  I  am 
with  you,  even  that  I  am  wearing  this,"  touching  his  habit, 
"  for  when  I  walk  through  our  chapel  I  kiss  the  stones  where 
you  have  knelt " 

Nearer  and  nearer  his  face  came  to  hers,  and  again  she  felt 
that  strange  thrill  of  delight  as  the  spell  of  his  beauty  crept 
over  her;  it  was  like  music  and  the  perfume  of  roses.  His  great 
yellow  eyes  were  shining  like  two  golden  stars;  unconsciously 
their  lips  met.  "  Margherita,"  he  whispered,  clasping  her  in 
his  arms,  "Amore  mio!" 

Footsteps  were  heard  in  the  next  room.     Fauvel  had  returned. 

When  he  entered,  Margaret  was  gazing  out  of  the  window ; 
Estori  was  standing  by  the  table  intent  upon  some  pencil  sketches 
that  were  lying  there. 

"  I  have  settled  it,  Mademoiselle,"  Fauvel  said  pleasantly  ; 
"  you  can  have  the  room  with  meals  and  lights,  for  50  lire  a 
week.  Signora  Scotti  asks  if  you  will  step  over  and  look  at  it 
now.  She  is  waiting  on  the  balcony." 


88  A  Cry  of  Youth 

"  Oh,  thank  you,  Monsieur,"  Margaret  replied,  in  an  un- 
steady voice;  "  I  will  go  at  once,  and  will  say  good  afternoon 
to  you  both." 

"  To-morrow  at  five,  Piazza.  Venezia,"  were  Estori's  quick 
words  as  he  helped  her  over  the  balcony. 

"  Now,"  said  Fauvel,  as  soon  as  they  were  alone,  "  I  have 
some  good  news  for  you.  Your  verses  have  been  accepted,  and 
Ricci,  the  editor,  asks  you  to  send  him  others." 

" Buonissimo!"  cried  Estori,  "is  that  really  true?  I  never 
thought  of  success  like  this!  How  can  I  ever  thank  you, 
Signore,  you  are  so  good  to  me  and  to  the  Signorina." 

Fauvel  smiled,  for  he  delighted  in  giving  pleasure.  "  They 
will  come  out  some  time  during  the  summer,"  he  ex- 
plained. "  This  magazine  does  not  pay  until  the  articles  are 
published." 

"  Oh,  I  do  not  care  for  money." 

"  Nonsense !     We  all  care  for  money." 

"  I  would  rather  have  fame,"  Estori  said  shyly. 

"  Have  both  if  you  can.  If  you  made  money,  you  might  be 
able  to  help  Mademoiselle."  This  was  spoken  covertly. 

The  younger  man's  expression  altered.  "  I  am  greatly  dis- 
tressed about  her,"  he  said.  "What  are  these?"  he  asked  by 
way  of  changing  the  conversation.  He  had  taken  up  the  pencil 
sketches  and  was  looking  them  over. 

"  Those,"  said  Fauvel,  "  are  rough  drawings  I  made  of  my 
old  place  in  the  mountains,  Rocca  Serrata,  it  is  called.  I  be- 
lieve I  told  you  that  a  friend  of  mine  left  it  to  me  in  his  will. 
It  is  only  a  ruin  and  he  bought  it  for  a  mere  song,  but  we 
artists  admired  it  for  its  loneliness  and  grandeur.  From  the 
ninth  to  the  fourteenth  centuries  it  was  an  impenetrable  fort- 
ress. That  sketch  you  hold  in  your  hand  is  of  the  ramparts 
and  east  wing,  the  only  portion  of  it  that  is  really  habitable." 

"  Do  you  ever  live  there?  " 

"  I  expect  to  stay  there  part  of  this  summer.  I  shall  enlarge 
from  sketches  and  do  some  studying  for  next  winter's  work. 


"Amore  Mio!"  89 

One  can  find  no  quieter  place  for  work  and  study.  The  nearest 
railroad  town  is  fifteen  miles  away  and  only  a  handful  of  stupid 
peasants  live  in  the  hamlet  at  the  foot  of  the  hill.  But  I  love 
it  because  it  is  old  and  saturated  with  history.  I  fancy  there  is 
a  good  deal  of  the  archaeologist  in  me." 

"  Then,"  said  Estori,  "  I  have  something  with  me  that  might 
interest  you."  He  fumbled  in  his  pockets  and,  producing  a 
wallet,  took  from  it  a  small  black  finger  ring. 

"What  is  it?"  asked  Fauvel. 

"  That's  what  I  want  to  know  myself.  I  have  never  shown 
it  to  any  one  before." 

Fauvel  took  the  ring  and  examined  it  closely.  "  It  is  of 
ancient  workmanship,  that  much  I  can  tell  you  for  a  certainty. 
Where  did  you  get  it  ?  " 

"  I  found  it  in  the  sub-cellar  under  our  convent."  He  did 
not  think  it  necessary  to  explain  about  the  hidden  chamber. 
"  And  if  you  please,  Signore,  do  not  mention  it  to  any  one. 
The  government  threatens  to  expel  us  and  tear  down  our  house 
in  order  to  excavate.  It  is  believed  there  are  many  old  things 
to  be  found  underneath  us."  As  he  spoke  he  glanced  slyly  at 
Fauvel,  who  was  busy  scrutinizing  the  ring.  "  I  suppose  it  is 
bronze,"  he  continued;  "  don't  you  think  so?  " 

"  I  am  not  sure."  Fauvel  went  into  the  studio  and  opened 
a  closet  in  the  wall  where  he  kept  an  assortment  of  bottles. 
Choosing  a  small  phial,  he  uncorked  it  and  poured  a  drop  or 
two  upon  the  ring.  Soon  a  bright  spot  appeared.  Estori 
watched  him  eagerly.  "  I  thought  so,"  Fauvel  exclaimed;  "  it 
is  good  old  Roman  gold,  but  this  acid  is  not  strong  enough  to 
clear  it  entirely.  It  is  corroded  by  damp  and  age.  Let  me  take 
it  to  my  jeweler  and  we  will  see ;  may  I  ?  " 

"  Certainly;  keep  it,  only  do  not  let  any  one  be  curious." 

"  No,  I  will  arrange  that ;  I  think  you  have  found  something 
of  genuine  antiquity.  It  is  a  woman's  ring,  and  it  looks  like 
the  workmanship  of  the  first  century.  I  have  seen  some  in  the 
museums.  I  believe  they  were  the  marriage  rings  of  the  an- 


90  A  Cry  of  Youth 

cients ;  a  marriage  ring,"  he  repeated,  "  emblem  of  eternal 
unity." 

There  was  a  decided  sarcasm  in  his  voice,  as  he  pronounced 
the  last  words ;  so  much  so  that  Estori  asked  quickly,  "  You  do 
not  believe  in  marriage?  " 

"  I  do  not  believe  in  any  legal  contract  of  hearts ;  leave  out 
the  question  of  hearts  and  marriage  in  the  aggregate  is  well 
enough." 

"  But  the  sacramental  marriage,"  he  gasped,  "  the  church's 
marriage?  " 

"  From  my  point  of  view  the  church's  marriage  is  no  more 
than  the  legal  contract.  I  do  not  believe  in  vows  and  chains. 
Oh,  I  know  what  your  argument  is,  of  course;  '  what  God  hath 
joined  together,'  etc.  But  in  how  many  marriages  is  God  a 
consideration?  Take  the  case  of  a  young  girl  forced  to  marry 
a  man  she  loathes,  yet  the  church  will  pronounce  its  blessing 
over  her.  Has  God  anything  to  do  with  that?  What  of  the 
man  who  marries,  loving  and  believing  he  is  loved  in  return 
while  the  woman  is  taking  him  for  his  money,  and  vice  versa; 
is  God  there?  And  the  parties  who  are  utterly  indifferent  to 
one  another  and  yet  marry  for  worldly  ambition  or  convenience, 
are  such  people  joined  together  by  God?  " 

"  Do  you  not  believe  in  love,  Signore?  " 

"  Love?  Oh,  that  is  a  different  matter.  True  love  needs  no 
chains.  It  will  be  enduring  and  self -sacrificing  to  the  end.  I 
believe  in  a  love  that  requires  neither  bonds  nor  chains  to  im- 
prison it,  but  will  remain  faithful  for  its  own  sake.  There  are 
cases  in  all  ages  of  the  most  devoted  love  and  fidelity  where  no 
marriage  has  ever  taken  place.  True  hearts  need  no  fetters." 

"  But  what  about  the  moral  law?  "  asked  Estori  simply. 

"  The  law  of  love  is  higher  than  the  moral  law.  '  God  is 
Love.'  " 

The  young  Franciscan  was  deep  in  thought  as  he  wended  his 
way  homeward.  He  loved  Margherita  with  all  the  strength  of 
his  fresh,  innocent  heart.  In  the  beginning  she  had  excited  his 


"Amore  Mio!"  91 

sympathy  and  interest,  and  she  was  unlike  any  other  young  girl 
he  had  ever  met.  The  very  fact  that  she  had  some  troubles 
made  her  doubly  dear  to  him,  and  that  she  should  have  to  fight 
the  world  for  a  living  distressed  him  beyond  measure.  He 
longed  to  protect  her  and  shield  her  and  make  her  happy,  and 
ah!  how  easily  it  could  be  done  if  he  were  free;  for  now  he 
knew  that  she  returned  his  love,  and  what  a  Paradise  on  earth 
they  could  make  together!  He  thought  of  the  beautiful  home 
he  had  renounced.  With  what  joy  he  could  have  thrown  wide 
the  door  and  have  said,  "  Enter,  Margherita,  as  my  wife  and  be 
domina  here  forever." 

As  he  walked  past  the  Colosseum  he  saw  the  dilapidated  build- 
ings that  composed  the  monastery,  high  upon  the  crest  of  the 
Palatine.  How  many  hundreds  of  souls,  he  thought,  had 
crushed  out  under  its  roof  the  hopes,  desires  and  longings  of 
life!  He  wished  he  were  not  obliged  to  return;  he  felt  upset 
and  rebellious.  He  would  like  to  dine  to-night  with  his  cousins 
at  their  elegantly  appointed  table.  The  few  days  he  had  spent 
with  them  and  the  easy,  luxurious  life  of  the  Palazzo  Estori 
had  sown  seeds  of  discontent.  It  would  not  be  such  a  terrible 
sin  to  stay  out  without  permission.  When  he  reached  the  Arch 
of  Titus  he  stood  still.  A  few  minutes  more  and  the  convent 
door  would  close  upon  him  and  so  would  end  the  never-to-be- 
forgotten  day  when  for  one  moment  he  had  held  Margherita  in 
his  arms.  The  memory  of  it  sent  the  hot  blood  leaping  in  his 
veins. 

A  wild  desire  to  break  away  suddenly  took  possession  of  him. 
What  was  to  prevent  his  running  off  and  taking  Margherita 
with  him !  Fauvel  had  said  the  "  law  of  love  is  higher  than  the 
moral  law"  and  would  not  their  love  compensate  for  anything 
they  might  lose  by  such  steps?  Besides,  he  had  not  yet  taken 
sacerdotal  vows ;  he  could  retract. 

He  watched  the  sun  going  down  behind  the  Marmertime 
Prison  like  a  huge  orange-colored  globe,  and  its  brilliancy  was 
focussed  in  a  shaft  of  light  upon  the  ruined  Atrium  of  the 


92  A  Cry  of  Youth 

House  of  the  Vestal  Virgins,  below  him  in  the  Forum,  and  his 
thoughts  turned  to  those  pagan  maidens  of  two  thousand  years 
ago  who  had  lived  under  vows  and  of  the  ghastly  punishment 
that  the  violation  of  their  vows  had  brought  upon  them. 
Walled  up  alive,  horrible  thought !  It  made  him  shudder.  He 
wondered  if  the  religious  orders  of  the  Christian  church  had 
conceived  their  idea  of  celibacy  from  the  vestal  virgins.  When 
one  came  to  think  of  it  the  vow  was  the  same,  chastity  and 
sworn  obedience  to  that  binding  rule  of  celibacy. 

The  frightful  physical  punishment  of  the  transgressor  had 
been  done  away  with,  but  there  still  remained  the  mental  pun- 
ishment, the  widespread  disgrace,  the  dishonor  and  the  cold 
shoulder  of  the  world,  towards  the  fallen  Religious.  Could  he 
ever  ask  Margherrta  to  share  this?  Ah,  even  if  she  were  will- 
ing, he  had  no  home  to  give  her.  Stern,  cold  duty  was  ahead 
of  him.  An  Estori  had  never  broken  his  word.  There  had 
been  soldiers  of  his  name  as  well  as  princes  and  statesmen  and 
cardinals;  brave,  true  men,  who  had  given  up  everything  that 
life  held  dear  to  fight  for  their  king. 

The  "  Ave  Maria  "  rang  out  from  the  old  bell-tower  above 
him  just  as  the  sun  set.  It  aroused  him  like  a  bugle  call  to 
arms;  he  must  answer  it,  for  was  he  not  a  soldier  too  and  in 
the  service  of  the  "  King  of  Kings  "  ? 

He  turned  his  back  upon  the  city  and  walked  bravely  up  the 
hill. 


CHAPTER   IX 

AN  UNEXPECTED  BLOW 

"  Spirit  of  Earth  and  Air  and  Fire, 
Skim  the  dross  and  fan  the  flame ! 
Behold  the  might  of  young  desire, 
Rise,  sweet  Spirit,  at  thy  name." 

They  had  both  acknowledged  their  love,  and  it  was  useless 
to  deceive  themselves  or  each  other  longer. 

Estori  had  no  idea  how  to  grasp  the  tangled  situation.  He 
was  of  a  dependent  disposition.  If  he  retracted  he  would  lose 
the  esteem,  regard  and  support  of  every  friend  he  had,  with  the 
exception  of  his  new  acquaintance,  the  artist  Fauvel.  He 
would  be  thrown  upon  the  world  without  resources  and  with- 
out influence.  There  would  be  nothing  for  him  to  do  unless 
perhaps  he  became  a  common  tradesman  on  a  starvation  salary. 
He  could  not  expect  Margherita  to  marry  him  under  such  con- 
ditions. His  monastic  training  had  unfitted  him  for  any  walk 
in  life  where  he  would  be  obliged  to  earn  his  bread. 

Fauvel  had  hinted,  that  he  might  engage  lawyers  and  try  to 
recover  his  own  property.  But  he  was  legally  of  age  when  he 
had  signed  it  away,  and  such  a  proceeding  would  involve  no- 
toriety and,  besides,  it  would  leak  out  that  it  was  done  for  a 
woman,  and  Margherita's  name  might  be  dragged  in,  and  even 
if  he  won  his  suit  they  would  begin  life  under  a  cloud. 

Now  he  was  in  good  repute  with  his  superiors.  Church  dig- 
nitaries kept  kindly,  watchful  eyes  upon  him,  which  he  under- 
stood meant  favor  in  the  future,  and  since  the  death  of  the  old 
Prince  a  friendship  had  sprung  up  between  his  cousin  Daniele 
and  himself.  Permission  was  never  refused  him  to  be  with  this 
cousin,  and  much  of  the  time  that  he  was  supposed  to  spend  at 
the  Palazzo  Estori  was  passed  in  the  company  of  Margherita 
and  Fauvel. 

He  was  one  of  those  easy-going  creatures  who  are  content 

93 


94  A  Cry  of  Youth 

with  the  present  and  confide  in  the  future,  very  young  for  his 
years  and  to  youth,  though  shrouded  in  a  monk's  cowl,  hope 
turns  her  shining  face.  There  was  more  than  a  year  yet  be- 
fore he  would  take  his  priestly  vows,  and  during  that  time  some 
opening  might  present  itself  by  which  it  would  be  made  easier 
for  him  to  assert  himself  and  renounce  the  cloister.  But  he 
suffered  in  his  conscience,  for  he  was  now  leading  a  false  life. 
One  by  one  he  omitted  little  pious  practises.  He  became 
thoughtful  and  taciturn,  and  his  Bmile  lost  its  ingenuous 
radiancy. 

As  for  Margaret,  she  was  contented  to  drift  with  the  knowl- 
edge that  she  possessed  the  love  of  any  one  so  beautiful  and  un- 
usual; the  very  barrier  gave  it  a  glamour  and  romance,  and 
their  secret  was  wonderful  and  interesting. 

She  carried  her  head  high  as  she  went  from  place  to  place 
where  the  nuns  or  the  bureaus  would  send  her,  and  at  last  she 
found  an  Irish  lady  who  wished  to  be  accompanied  sightseeing 
twice  a  week  and  although  she  only  received  2  lire  each  time 
they  stopped  out  for  luncheon  where  she  enjoyed  a  wholesome, 
appetizing  meal,  for  the  table  at  the  Scottis'  was  very  meager. 
This  was  a  little  encouraging,  and  it  made  her  look  brighter, 
so  that  one  day  Fauvel  said  to  himself,  "  She  just  escapes  being 
extremely  pretty." 

Towards  the  middle  of  May,  Donna  Bianca  Salviate  went  to 
Sweden  to  live  for  two  years  with  a  married  daughter.  It  was 
with  genuine  regret  that  Margaret  bade  her  good-by,  and  to 
Estori  the  departure  of  his  dear  "  Madrina  "  was  an  actual 
grief. 

Margaret  was  fairly  comfortable  at  the  Scottis',  but  her  eve- 
nings were  terribly  dull,  for  she  was  their  only  boarder  and  she 
had  nothing  in  common  with  them,  so  after  dinner  she  would 
shut  herself  in  her  room  and  read  or  study  Italian  until  bed- 
time. Sometimes  she  would  open  the  big  wardrobe  and  look 
with  a  little  sigh  at  the  pretty  dresses  hanging  there,  for  living 
as  she  did  she  had  no  opportunity  to  wear  them.  One  of  her 


An  Unexpected  Blow  95 

chief  solaces  was  the  weekly  visit  of  Giacinta,  who  came  with 
her  linen.  The  faithful  woman  would  overlook  Margaret's 
apparel,  brush  and  mend,  and  care  for  her  in  a  general  way 
that  only  one  so  lonely  could  appreciate.  She  enjoyed  teaching 
the  well-behaved  boys  of  Madame  Tardieu,  and  often  Fauvel 
would  ask  the  latter  and  herself  to  his  apartment  for  afternoon 
tea.  Usually  Estori  would  happen  in  also  and  assist  them  in 
filling  the  water  kettle,  and  sugar  bowl,  and  although  he  could 
not  be  persuaded  to  taste  the  tea,  there  was  always  vermouth 
on  the  sideboard. 

The  young  monk  considered  the  artist  the  cleverest  and  most 
generous-hearted  person  he  had  ever  known,  though  he  could 
not  approve  of  some  of  his  ideas  and  moral  or  lack  of  moral 
convictions.  He  kept  his  friend  supplied  with  his  red  roses, 
also  he  presented  him  with  quantities  of  oranges.  His  mother 
owned  a  large  grove  of  orange  trees  south  of  Naples  and  lately 
she  had  sent  him  crates  of  the  luscious  fruit  to  be  divided  among 
his  companions  at  the  convent,  and  two  big  sacks  had  found 
their  way  by  a  trusty  messenger  to  the  Vicolo  San  Nicola  da 
Tolentino. 

The  friendship  between  the  two  deepened  now  and  grew,  and 
Estori,  knowing  he  was  more  than  welcome  at  the  studio, 
scarcely  let  a  day  pass  without  coming  in,  while  Fauvel  had 
been  shown  all  over  the  monks'  garden  and  through  as  much  of 
their  convent  as  a  layman  was  allowed  to  enter. 

About  this  time  the  Marchese  Pallavicino  arrived  in  Rome 
prior  to  starting  with  his  family  for  Algiers,  and  during  these 
days  his  step-father  claimed  Estori.  Once  they  went  to  the 
Vatican  where  the  Marchese  had  an  interview  with  the  Cardi- 
nal Secretary  of  State,  the  nature  of  which  Estori  did  not  know, 
for  he  waited  in  an  ante-chamber  while  the  Marchese  was 
closeted  with  the  Cardinal.  Soon  his  mother  was  expected, 
and  he  was  looking  forward  to  seeing  her  with  untold  joy;  she 
had  last  seen  him  as  a  boy ;  what  would  she  think  of  the  grown 
man? 


96  A  Cry  of  Youth 

The  spring  was  advancing,  and  Fauvel  longing  for  a  breath 
of  country  air,  invited  him  to  join  Madame  Tardieu,  her  boys, 
Margaret,  and  himself  for  a  day's  excursion  out  to  Frascati. 
The  Father  Superior  had  met  the  artist,  "  the  nephew  of  a 
Belgian  Bishop,"  and  had  readily  given  his  permission,  for  Fra 
Felice  was  rarely  refused  a  request.  They  were  all  to  meet  in 
front  of  the  Grand  Hotel,  where  a  carriage  would  be  in  readi- 
ness. 

Estori  was  the  first  to  arrive,  and  while  he  stood  waiting  for 
the  others  he  noticed  a  man  whom  he  tried  to  avoid  recognizing. 
He  was  Angelo  Dompi,  a  sort  of  factotum  of  his  step-father's, 
a  gossip  and  busy-body.  Estori  was  much  annoyed.  He  was 
going  with  the  full  sanction  of  his  Superior,  to  accompany  the 
artist  on  a  rural  jaunt,  but  he  had  not  mentioned  that  there 
were  others  included  in  the  invitation,  and  some  of  them  ladies. 
This  man  had  once  made  trouble  for  him,  as  a  boy,  at  home,  and 
it  was  with  a  vague  apprehension  that  he  now  saw  him.  Dompi 
came  forward  and  he  was  obliged  to  speak  to  him,  after  which 
Estori  made  some  pretext  for  going  into  the  hotel,  in  hopes  of 
getting  rid  of  him,  but  when  he  came  out  again  Dompi  was 
still  there,  and  watched  the  whole  party  drive  off. 

On  reaching  Frascati,  they  went  first  to  the  Monastery  of 
Grotta  Ferrata  to  see  the  famous  frescoes  of  Domenichino,  and 
after  studying  them  and  the  antiquity  of  the  building  which 
dated  from  the  year  1002,  they  drove  to  the  Villa  Aldobrandini, 
stopping  on  the  way  to  buy  some  of  the  "  Vino  vero  di  Frascati" 

Leaving  the  carriage  in  the  town,  they  ascended  the  terrace 
where  the  mountain  stream  has  been  caught  and  made  to  run 
in  a  regular  channel,  emptying  its  cascade  into  marble  basins  as 
it  flows  down  the  hillside.  Beside  one  of  these  basins,  about 
halfway  up,  they  seated  themselves  and  spread  out  the  luncheon. 

"  This  country  air  gives  me  an  appetite,"  said  Margaret ;  "  I 
am  ashamed  of  the  way  I  am  eating." 

She  was  enjoying  every  moment. 

How  happy  she  might  be,  she  thought,  in  the  society  of  these 


An  Unexpected  Blow  97 

delightful  friends,  if  it  were  not  for  the  everlasting  worry  over 
money  matters! 

"  We  have  done  well  by  the  wine  of  Frascati,"  Fauvel  said, 
filling  the  glasses  from  the  last  flask ;  "  there  is  such  a  difference 
when  one  drinks  it  here  on  the  spot;  it  seems  to  lose  its  flavor 
after  being  carted  into  the  city." 

When  the  repast  was  finished  Margaret  rose.  "  I  am  in  a 
cramp  from  sitting  so  long  on  the  ground,"  she  exclaimed.  "  I 
think  I  will  run  to  the  top  of  the  hill ;  who  wants  to  come  ?  " 

The  boys  were  still  nibbling  at  the  sweets,  Fauvel  and  Ma- 
dame Tardieu  had  lighted  cigarettes  and  made  themselves  com- 
fortable against  some  stones;  Estori  did  not  smoke.  "I  do!  " 
he  cried  promptly;  then  Gervais  decided  to  go  too,  and  Raoul 
followed  his  brother. 

Margaret  was  gowned  in  a  light  blue  linen  suit  and  broad- 
brimmed  sailor  hat  and  in  spite  of  the  afternoon  heat  of  a  late 
spring  day,  looked  cool  and  fresh  and  sweet. 

"  What  an  attractive  little  thing  she  is!  "  Madame  Tardieu 
remarked,  as  she  watched  them  move  away  through  the  trees. 
"  What  can  her  people  be  thinking  of  to  allow  her  to  wander 
around  Europe  alone  and  not  provide  her  with  sufficient  means? 
She  does  not  seem  to  have  a  cent  to  spare ;  she  walks  to  my  house 
in  all  sorts  of  weather  to  save  two  soldi  *  in  the  '  tram.'  I  am 
interested  in  her,  Meurice;  I  wish  I  could  afford  to  take  her 
with  me  this  summer.  The  boys  are  quite  devoted  to  her." 

"  So  is  some  one  else,"  he  remarked,  with  a  slight  wave  of  his 
hand  towards  the  group,  who  were  out  of  hearing. 

Madame  Tardieu  glanced  up  from  her  cigarette  and  saw 
Estori  bending  over  Margaret  in  a  very  loverlike  attitude. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  "  I  have  noticed  they  are  fond  of  each 
other." 

"  Fond  of  each  other!  They  are  madly  in  love,  and  they 
flatter  themselves  that  no  one  suspects  it.  They  are  playing 
with  fire." 

*  Pennies. 


98  A  Cry  of  Youth 

"  And  yon  encourage  them !  " 

Fauvel  laughed. 

"  It  is  wrong  of  you,"  she  cried ;  "  very  wrong  when  you 
know  there  can  never  be  anything  between  them,  considering 
what  he  is." 

"  He  is  a  man." 

"  It  is  not  kind,"  she  continued ;  "  they  will  find  trouble 
enough  in  this  world  without  your  adding  to  it.  You  are  bad, 
Fauvel,  and  no  fit  companion  for  the  young."  Madame  Tar- 
dieu  laughed  as  she  reproved  him,  but  he  could  see  that  she  was 
half  in  earnest,  for  he  exclaimed : 

"  Why,  I  am  their  best  friend !  Ma  foi,  what  is  it  ?  Fate 
has  thrown  them  together,  not  I!  I  frankly  confess  I  should 
like  to  see  them  in  each  other's  arms." 

"  Meurice  Fauvel,  you  are  positively  shocking!  " 

"Ft  done,  ma  chere  Louise,  those  are  my  opinions;  you  are 
as  free  to  yours.  I  feel  very  strongly  on  the  subject  of  heredity. 
If  you  had  seen  life  as  I  have  seen  it  in  my  hospital  days,  the 
deformities,  the  weaklings,  mental  and  physical,  that  come  into 
the  world  tainted  with  disease  before  they  are  born,  all  these 
things  that  make  birth  a  greater  tragedy  than  death.  Pshaw !  " 
he  continued,  "  the  world  has  to  be  populated,  n'est-ce  pas? 
Now  look  at  those  two;  what  splendid  children  theirs  would  be! 
Parbleuf  I  become  so  exasperated  at  times  at  the  sight  of  that 
brown  habit  that  I  want  to  tear  it  off  him." 

"  An  unfrocked  monk  is  an  unpleasant  thing,"  Madame  Tar- 
dieu  said  slowly,  "  and  the  world  has  little  use  for  him." 

"  I  do  not  agree  with  you,  and  in  this  case  there  are  extenu- 
ating circumstances." 

"  That  may  be,"  she  answered,  "  but  if  you  air  these  senti- 
ments before  him,  young  and  impressionable  as  he  is,  you  may 
be  the  cause  of  his  leading  a  life  of  deceit  and  intrigue.  If  ever 
a  Religious  wore  his  robe  spotlessly  I  believe  it  is  Fra  Felice. 
No,  you  need  not  smile,  Fauvel.  I  do  not  mean  that  he  is 
saintly,  pas  du  tout;  his  flirtatious  manner  with  Mademoiselle 


An  Unexpected  Blow  99 

par  example  does  not  go  well  with  his  habit,  but  he  is  uncon- 
scious of  it.  There  is  a  charm  even  in  his  faults  and  one  cannot 
look  into  his  gorgeous  eyes  without  seeing  innocence.  I  notice 
you  have  an  influence  over  him ;  beware  how  you  use  it." 

It  was  dusk  when  they  drove  back  into  the  city  through  the 
Lateran  Gate.  To  Estori  it  was  the  happiest  day  of  his  life, 
but  a  disappointment  was  in  store  for  him.  A  note  from  his 
step-father  said  he  feared  the  sight  of  him  as  a  monk  would  be 
too  much  for  his  mother,  after  all  these  years  of  separation; 
that  it  might  completely  unnerve  her  for  the  hard  journey  be- 
fore her.  Could  he  be  unselfish  enough  to  let  her  pass  through 
Rome  without  meeting  him  ?  He  believed  it  was  best  for  them 
both ;  they  would  be  spared  the  wrench  of  parting  a  second 
time. 

Estori  forced  back  the  tears  that  sprang  from  a  wounded 
heart.  It  seemed  to  him  the  selfishness  was  on  the  other  side; 
but  he  wrote  in  reply  that  he  would  agree  to  do 'whatever  was 
best  for  Mamma;  her  peace  and  welfare  must  be  considered 
above  his  desires.  He  would  keep  away.  None  of  his  friends 
saw  him  for  several  days.  Margaret  wrote  but  received  no  an- 
swer, and  on  the  fifth  day,  anxious  and  apprehensive,  she  walked 
out  toward  the  Palatine.  She  knew  his  habits  so  well,  the 
hours  he  came  and  went,  that  she  felt  sure  she  would  meet  him. 
She  went  as  far  as  the  Arch  of  Titus,  then  stood  there  to  watch 
and  wait. 

At  intervals  brown-robed  figures,  alone  or  in  couples,  passed 
her  on  their  homeward  way.  Each  time  she  had  it  in  her  mind 
to  speak  to  one  of  the  brothers  and  inquire  casually  if  Fra  Felice 
were  well,  but  each  time  her  courage  failed  her.  She  had  just 
decided  to  retrace  her  steps  and  ask  Fauvel  to  go  to  the  monas- 
tery and  find  out  what  had  become  of  him,  when  she  saw  Estori 
coming  toward  her  with  an  elderly  monk  on  either  side  of  him. 
He  gave  a  slight  start  on  perceiving  her,  but  no  smile  of  welcome 
rose  to  his  face ;  only  the  color  went  from  it.  For  one  second 
their  eyes  met,  then  he  lowered  his  and  passed  her  by  without  a 


100  A  Cry  of  Youth 

sign  of  recognition.  Her  heart  stood  still ;  she  thought  she  was 
going  to  faint.  What  could  it  mean,  what  had  she  done  that  he 
should  treat  her  thus? 

She  watched  the  three  brown  figures  go  up  the  hill  until  the 
angle  of  the  high  wall  hid  them  from  sight,  then  she  noticed  a 
small  book  lying  in  the  road  over  which  they  had  gone.  She 
tried  to  go  and  pick  it  up  but  could  not  find  the  strength.  She 
leaned  for  support  against  the  government  rail  that  encloses  the 
Forum.  One  of  the  monks  was  hurrying  back  down  the  path ; 
it  was  Estori.  He  stooped  and  secured  the  book  and  in  another 
moment  was  beside  her. 

"  Thank  God,  I  find  you  still  here,  Margherita  mia,"  he 
said  in  gasps.  "  I  might  not  write  you,  for  I  have  been  watched, 
watched  all  the  time.  To-day  I  managed  to  post  you  a  letter 
an  hour  ago.  I  dropped  my  breviary  for  an  excuse  to  return 
and  if  possible  speak  this  word.  I  may  not  stop  now,  the  letter 
will  tell  you  the  news  that  breaks  my  heart.  Margherita  —  I 
am  to  be  sent  to  South  America  for  ten  years!  " 


CHAPTER   X 
"A  MAN  SET  APART" 

The  pain  of  my  heart  escapes  me 

In  a  bitter  exceeding  cry; 

I  writhe  in  the  hand  that  shapes  me: 

Stop,  stop  all  ye  that  pass  by! 

What  sorrow  is  like  the  sorrow 

From  my  fresh  heart's  richness  wrung? 

Yet  deceive  me  with  no  to-morrow  — 

I  am  young,  ah,  misery,  young! 

LOUISE  BETTS  EDWARDS. 

Margaret  sat  in  her  room  near  the  window  that  looked  out 
upon  the  same  court  as  the  rear  windows  of  the  artist.  She 
was  reading  Estori's  letter  which  had  reached  her  by  the  first 
mail  that  morning. 

It  said  that  by  order  of  the  Father  General  he  was  to  leave 
for  South  America  within  a  week,  in  company  of  some  mission- 
ary priests.  He  had  always  understood  that  he  would  remain 
in  Rome  until  after  he  was  ordained.  Furthermore,  he  had 
been  allowed  freedom  to  come  and  go,  and  suddenly  surveillance 
was  put  upon  him.  He  was  inclined  to  believe  that  his  step- 
father's secretary,  Dompi,  whom  he  had  told  her  of  meeting  the 
day  of  the  Frascati  picnic,  had  in  some  way  been  instrumental 
in  letting  it  reach  the  superiors  how  he  had  seen  him  drive  off 
in  company  of  ladies.  He  hoped  to  meet  her  the  next  afternoon 
at  San  Marco;  still  he  might  not  be  able  to  get  off  alone.  In 
case  he  should  fail  to  be  there,  would  she  come  out  to  the  con- 
vent; ladies  often  came  to  see  him  about  orders  for  roses,  etc., 
and  no  remarks  would  be  made.  The  news  had  torn  his  heart 
in  two,  he  continued.  If  only  his  step-father  were  in  the  coun- 
try he  would  appeal  to  him  to  use  his  influence;  but  the  Mar- 
chese  had  been  gone  four  days.  Or  if  his  cousin,  the  old  Prince, 
were  living  he  would  go  to  him  for  aid;  he  feared  his  young 

101 


102  A  Cry  of  Youth 

cousin,  Daniele  Estori,  had  not  much  weight  as  yet  with  ecclesi- 
astical leaders,  but  he  would  see  him  and  not  leave  a  stone  un- 
turned to  reverse  the  order.  "  And,  oh,  Margherita,"  he  wrote, 
"  if  I  am  sent  there  we  will  never  meet  again!  " 

She  sat  as  if  turned  to  stone.  She  was  to  lose  him ;  she  had 
no  faith  in  the  shreds  of  hope  he  held  out. 

She  had  never  seriously  thought  about  his  breaking  away 
from  monastic  life.  All  her  Catholic  training  revolted  against 
the  idea  of  marriage  with  him.  She  could  never  forget  that 
he  had  discarded  a  habit,  and  neither  of  them  had  money  to 
brazen  it  through  —  for  the  world  often  pardons  gilded  dis- 
grace. She  had  been  simply  contented  with  his  love;  it  made 
her  better  and  braver,  and  after  that  once  in  Fauvel's  rooms  she 
had  never  permitted  him  to  kiss  her  again. 

She  had  been  building  upon  going  later  with  the  Contessa 
Melzi  to  Switzerland.  She  had  counted  that  she  and  Estori 
would  be  only  parted  for  three  months  and  she  could  save  her 
salary  to  pay  for  her  board  in  Rome  in  the  autumn,  until  she 
could  find  work.  Now  she  was  indifferent  as  to  whether  she 
came  back  or  not ;  Rome  would  not  be  Rome  without  him.  She 
put  down  the  letter  wearily.  Below  in  the  courtyard  rabbits 
were  contentedly  munching  a  dirty  cabbage.  Those  stupid 
little  creatures  were  happy;  they  were  incapable  of  suffering; 
she  envied  them. 

The  morning  wore  on  slowly ;  there  was  nothing  to  do  until 
the  appointed  hour  that  afternoon  when  she  hoped  to  meet  him. 
Unfortunately  there  were  no  lessons  or  duties  to  occupy  her 
that  day,  and  it  made  her  remember  with  a  start  how  low  her 
funds  were  getting.  At  last  the  hands  of  the  clock  pointed  to 
half-past  four,  and  she  started  out. 

On  reaching  the  Piazza.  Venezia  she  saw  that  something  un- 
usual was  taking  place.  The  large  open  square  was  filled  with 
people  of  all  classes,  talking,  screaming  and  gesticulating  wildly. 
The  trams  were  stopped  and  blocked,  and  in  some  of  the  shop 
windows  the  heavy  night  shutters  were  down.  A  cordon  of 


"A  Man  Set  Apart "          103 

soldiers  was  arranged  in  front  of  the  old  Venetian  Palace. 
Margaret  saw  that  it  was  impossible  to  cross  the  square,  or 
attempt  to  get  to  San  Marco  through  that  surging,  frantic 
mob. 

"  What  is  it,  what  is  it?  "  she  asked  of  this  one  and  that,  who 
elbowed  past  her;  but  she  only  received  broken,  incoherent  an- 
swers in  which  the  words,  "  blood  "  and  "  riot,"  were  all  she 
could  make  out. 

She  was  frightened  at  such  a  wild,  uncontrollable  excitement. 
She  thought  her  clothing  would  be  torn  to  rags  and  knew  her 
hat  was  pushed  all  awry.  She  tried  to  turn  away,  but  seemed 
caught  in  a  whirlpool.  She  was  about  to  cease  struggling  and 
let  herself  be  carried  on  with  the  mob  when  to  her  intense  relief 
she  saw  a  familiar  blond  head  and  beard,  conspicuous  among  the 
countless  dark  ones,  and  Fauvel  was  passing  within  reach  of  her ; 
she  stretched  out  her  hand  and  caught  at  his  sleeve.  He  stopped 
suddenly.  "  Mademoiselle,"  he  exclaimed,  and  in  a  moment  he 
had  extricated  her  and  brought  her  to  a  place  of  safety. 

"  Mademoiselle,"  he  said,  "  you  must  go  home  at  once.  How 
did  you  come  to  be  among  these  ravening  wolves?  "  They  were 
standing  in  an  arcade  while  Margaret  smoothed  her  attire. 

"  I  come  this  way  every  day,  Monsieur,  and  stop  at  the  bank 
over  there  for  my  letters,"  she  explained.  "  What  does  it  all 
mean  and  what  are  they  yelling  and  screaming  about?  " 

"  It  does  not  take  much  to  make  an  Italian  crowd  become  dis- 
orderly, as  a  rule,"  he  replied,  with  a  half  contemptuous  smile, 
as  they  watched  the  populace  surge  by ;  "  but  this  is  really  seri- 
ous. The  affair  is  only  just  over  and  the  crowd  is  behaving 
mildly  to  what  it  did  a  few  moments  ago.  I  had  been  out  on 
the  Aventine  and  was  coming  back  by  tram,  when  the  car  was 
stopped  for  the  passing  funeral  of  an  anarchist  workman  who 
was  killed  by  falling  from  a  scaffold.  The  police  made  it  come 
to  a  halt,  for  its  sensational  banners  and  frenzied  lamentations 
were  objectionable  to  the  normal  public.  The  interference 
caused  loud  protestations  and  during  the  argument  some  man  in 


104  A  Cry  of  Youth 

the  procession  made  an  insulting  remark  about  the  Pope,  which 
was  resented.  There  happened  to  be  a  cart  filled  with  loose 
stones  standing  by,  and  before  any  one  could  tell  who  began  it, 
the  stones  were  being  hurled  back  and  forth  and  several  were 
injured." 

"  Oh,  Monsieur,"  she  cried  again,  white  to  her  lips,  "  Fra 
Felice  may  be  among  them.  I  was  going  to  meet  him,"  she  fal- 
tered, "  in  San  Marco's  for  a  moment.  Have  you  heard  that 
he  is  to  be  sent  to  South  America?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Fauvel,  "  I've  had  word  from  him  to  that  ef- 
fect." 

The  artist  spoke  in  the  most  unconcerned  way.  Margaret 
was  astonished.  If  Estori  had  been  going  to  Naples  for  a 
week  Fauvel  could  not  have  said  it  any  more  coolly. 

"  But  don't  you  think  it  is  dreadful,  cruel,  that  they  should 
send  him  so  far  away?  "  she  asked. 

"  Yes,  I  am  very  sorry  that  he  is  made  unhappy  by  receiving 
this  order." 

Margaret  looked  up  at  him  quickly.  There  was  a  strange 
expression  on  his  face  which  she  could  not  understand.  Ma- 
dame Tardieu  had  told  her  that  Fauvel  was  a  very  peculiar 
man,  and  she  now  agreed  with  her. 

"  But,  Monsieur,"  she  cried,  "  while  we  are  talking  here  Fra 
Felice  may  be  injured,  or  dead.  Can  we  not  find  out,  is  there 
no  way  of  getting  across  the  street  ?  " 

"  No,"  he  said,  "  we  can  do  nothing  at  present;  no  one  will 
be  allowed  to  pass  that  cordon  to-night;  but  I  will  telephone 
to  the  hospitals  and  let  you  know  as  soon  as  I  return  after 
dinner.  And  now,  Mademoiselle,  I  am  going  to  find  a  cab 
and  put  you  in  it.  I  would  take  you  home  myself,  but  I  have 
an  engagement  in  ten  minutes." 

When  he  had  seen  her  drive  off  in  safety  he  called  another 
for  himself,  and  saying  to  the  man,  "  Aragno's,  Corso,"  jumped 
in.  Then  the  same  strange  expression  that  Margaret  had  no- 
ticed flitted  over  his  face  and  he  fell  to  working  out  a  problem 


"A  Man  Set  Apart"          105 

that  had  been  in  his  mind  since  morning  when  he  had  received 
Estori's  letter. 

"  Some  fruit  hangs  so  firmly  to  the  tree,"  he  mused,  "  that  no 
shaking  will  dislodge  it;  it  takes  a  hard  blow  to  send  it  tum- 
bling down,  and  when  once  it  has  fallen,  c'est  bien  different" 
Just  then  they  passed  a  jeweler's  where  in  the  window  was  dis- 
played antique  jewelry.  "  Fermate,  cochiere"  he  called  out 
suddenly,  and  the  cab  drew  up  sharply.  Telling  the  driver  to 
wait,  he  entered  the  shop.  Going  to  the  rear  he  said  a  few 
words  to  a  clerk  who  apparently  knew  him  and  in  a  moment 
brought  him,  carefully  laid  upon  a  piece  of  white  cotton,  a 
small,  shining  gold  ring.  Fauvel  was  delighted. 

"  How  beautifully  it  has  come  out !"  he  exclaimed ;  "  I  was 
sure  I  was  not  mistaken." 

"  Yes,  Signore,"  replied  the  clerk,  "  it  is  the  purest  old 
Roman  gold,  but  it  took  many  treatments  to  restore  it  to  its 
original  color.  It  is  of  most  delicate  hand-wrought  workman- 
ship." 

Fauvel  held  it  under  the  electric  light;  it  was  shining,  a 
bright  reddish  gold  and  hammered  in  an  unbroken  circle.  An- 
other moment  he  was  in  the  cab  again.  Margaret  waited  at 
home  in  a  fever  of  anxiety.  Her  great  hope  was  that  Estori 
had  not  been  able  to  leave  the  convent  unaccompanied,  as  in 
that  case  he  would  not  have  gone  to  the  Piazza  Venezia.  About 
half-past  nine  the  artist  appeared,  bringing  with  him  the  evening 
papers  and  saying  that  he  had  telephoned  to  all  the  hospitals 
and  there  were  no  priests  or  monks  among  the  injured.  The 
Signora  Scotti  and  her  daughter  came  in  to  hear  the  latest 
reports. 

"  The  whole  town,"  Fauvel  continued,  "  is  in  an  uproar.  I 
dined  early  at  the  Hotel  d'Angleterre  with  friends  and,  being 
tired,  thought  I  would  drive  home.  Not  a  cab  to  be  had,  not 
one.  All  the  drivers  are  on  strike  —  most  of  them  are  social- 
ists and  in  sympathy,  and  I  had  to  walk  home." 

"  Grand  Dio"  exclaimed  the  Signora,  "  is  it  as  bad  as  that?  " 


106  A  Cry  of  Youth 

"  It  is  worse.  Every  other  street  loiterer  is  drunk.  But 
rest  assured,  Mademoiselle,"  he  said  to  Margaret  in  an  under- 
tone, "  our  friend  is  undoubtedly  in  all  safety  upon  the  Pala- 
tine." 

He  remained  with  them  for  a  time,  then  climbed  over  the 
balcony  to  his  own  apartment. 

The  following  morning  Margaret  received  another  note  from 
Estori.  "  Safe,  safe,"  she  murmured  as  she  pressed  it  to  her 
lips.  It  was  formal  and  stilted,  and  began  "  Signorina.  I 
write  to  warn  you  not  to  go  out  of  doors  to-day.  Rome  is  all 
agitation  on  account  of  the  revolt.  There  are  many  bad  things 
happening  and  drunkards  and  ruffians  about  the  streets.  I  pray 
you  be  prudent  and  do  not  leave  the  house.  I  am  busy  prepar- 
ing for  my  departure,  which  is  arranged  for  Monday  next.  If 
things  are  more  quiet  by  Sunday  I  will  have  permission  to  visit 
my  friends  and  bid  them  farewell.  Pray  for  yours. — FELICE 
ESTORI." 

He  had  signed  his  monastic  name  instead  of  his  baptismal 
"  Leone,"  which  he  always  used  when  writing  her.  She  felt 
convinced  the  note  had  to  be  shown  before  it  was  sent  and  she 
understood  that  he  was  not  now  free  to  post  it  himself.  He 
was  to  leave  on  Monday,  and  this  was  Friday.  How  dark  the 
world  had  grown! 

A  dismal  rain  was  beating  on  the  window.  There  was  not 
an  English  book  in  the  house,  and  she  did  not  feel  equal  to  at- 
tempting an  Italian  novel.  As  one  sharp  physical  wound  stuns 
all  lesser  aches,  so  the  sharp  pain  of  his  loss  stifled  her  other 
worries.  Money,  the  want  of  it,  that  had  been  for  so  many 
weeks  like  a  spectre  stalking  after  her,  now  seemed  such  a 
paltry  trouble. 

Once  she  had  heard  Fauvel  remark  in  some  argument  with 
Madame  Tardieu,  that  the  man  and  woman  who  were  free  to 
marry  the  one  of  their  choice  could  never  experience  the  same 
keen,  intense  love  as  those  between  whom  marriage  was  impos- 
sible. She  believed  this  was  so. 


"A  Man  Set  Apart"  107 

The  rain  continued  to  pour  in  drenching  torrents;  and  hour 
after  hour  Margaret  stood  at  the  window,  gazing  out  —  and 
seeing  nothing  except  the  bright  "  dream  youth,"  as  she  had 
first  half  thought  him,  so  radiant  that  he  had  seemed  of  a  dif- 
ferent creation  from  the  rest  of  the  world.  Now  was  he  to  be 
taken  from  her!  She  might  live  on  for  years  and  years  and 
they  would  never  meet  again. 

The  third  day  Margaret  could  stand  it  no  longer.  She  could 
now  count  the  hours  that  remained  before  Estori  must  depart, 
and  she  determined  to  try  and  see  him;  something  might  pre- 
vent his  coming  to-morrow,  it  might  be  her  Inst  chance — 

When  she  announced  her  intention  of  going  out,  her  landlady 
help  up  her  hands  in  horror,  but  Margaret  was  undaunted,  and 
dressing  herself  in  a  quiet,  tailor-made  suit,  slipped  fearlessly 
from  the  house. 

It  was  about  four  in  the  afternoon  and  the  city,  usually 
teeming  with  life  at  that  hour,  now  seemed  deserted.  The 
trams  were  not  running  and  the  cab  drivers  were  still  on  strike. 
All  the  shops  were  closed,  with  their  windows  shuttered  and 
barred.  There  were  detachments  of  soldiers  at  every  other 
street  corner.  She  passed  groups  of  sullen-looking  men  loiter- 
ing at  the  doors  of  wine  shops,  and  others  playing  "  Morra," 
with  the  usual  wrangling. 

No  one  molested  her  and  her  walk  was  almost  finished.  She 
was  approaching  the  dear,  familiar  road  with  the  Stations  of  the 
Cross,  where  months  before  the  tall  eucalyptus  trees,  that  now 
met  overhead  in  an  archway  of  greenery,  had  been  leafless  and 
bare  and  an  artist  had  advised  her  to  go  up  and  see  how  beauti- 
ful it  was  where  the  avenue  came  to  an  end.  What  she  had 
found  had  been  Estori,  and  now  the  brief  chapter  in  his  life 
and  hers  had  come  to  as  unexpected  an  end  as  the  picturesque 
path  that  stopped  at  the  monastery  door. 

She  was  pulling  the  old  bell  rope  before  she  knew  it;  she 
would  not  allow  herself  to  think,  she  would  break  down  if  she 
did.  In  another  moment  the  burly  monk  who  served  as  porter 


108  A  Cry  of  Youth 

pushed  back  a  small  slide  in  the  door  and  was  peering  out  cau- 
tiously, and  she  was  asking  for  "  Fra  Felice." 

Telling  her  to  wait,  he  closed  it  again.  Then  she  heard 
the  creaking  of  bars  from  inside  the  church  door  and  the  porter 
opened  it,  motioning  her  to  enter. 

It  seemed  as  if  she  had  waited  a  long  time.  The  church 
was  dark  and  felt  cold  and  damp  to  her,  coming  in  from  the 
warm  sunshine.  At  last  she  heard  a  slight  sound  and,  looking 
up,  saw  Estori  standing  behind  the  bars  that  screened  off  the 
high  altar. 

She  came  towards  him  with  faltering  steps.  Never  before 
had  she  realized  the  wide  gulf  that  separated  them;  now  she 
saw  him  as  "  a  man  set  apart."  In  spite  of  their  common  youth, 
their  affection,  the  innocent,  happy  hours  they  had  spent  to- 
gether, there  was  a  difference  between  them  as  great  as  that  of 
darkness  and  light,  and  the  bars  through  which  she  saw  him 
were  the  visible  type  of  those  other  bars  that  should  keep  them 
apart  all  of  their  lives.  As  she  drew  nearer  she  saw  that  his 
eyes  showed  traces  of  tears  and  had  dark  circles  around  them ; 
but  this  did  not  mar  the  sweetness  of  his  expression,  for  his  face 
had  lost  its  almost  audacious  beauty  and  become  more  spiritual. 
He  waited  until  she  was  close  to  the  bars,  and  then  spoke. 

"  Signorina,"  he  began,  and  she  felt  he  was  speaking  under 
restraint,  "  I  wrote  and  warned  you  not  to  come  out;  it  is  very 
imprudent." 

"  No,"  she  said,  "  it  is  not.  I  could  not  stay  at  home  any 

longer,  knowing  you  —  you  were "  She  broke  off.  "I 

would  brave  any  danger  to  come  to Oh!"  she  cried, 

choking  back  a  sob,  "  Leone,  my  heart  is  breaking!  " 

"  No  more  than  mine,  Margherita,"  he  whispered ;  "  not  as 
much  as  mine."  He  spoke  very  low,  and  she  felt  sure  that 
from  behind  the  lattice-work  above  some  eye  was  upon  them. 

"  Is  it  hopeless?  "  she  asked. 

"  Yes,  I  have  appealed  in  vain.  We  must  speak  louder  and 
on  ordinary  topics,"  he  said  quickly. 


"A  Man  Set  Apart"  109 

There  was  no  other  topic  that  her  mind  could  hold,  so  she 
inquired  in  as  ordinary  tones  as  she  could  command  if  he  had 
seen  Fauvel. 

"  No,  but  I  have  had  the  kindest  letter  from  him.  He  is  my 
very  good  friend  —  and  yours,  Signorina.  To-morrow  I  shall 
go  to  see  him,  and  I  will  come  to  see  you  —  in  casa  sua."  He 
had  never  been  in  the  Scotti  house.  "  For  the  first  and  last 
time,"  he  added  in  a  lower  key,  "  and  then  we  can  talk  —  talk 
of  everything  we  may  not  say  here.  Now  hasten  home,  Mar- 
gherita ;  I  cannot  have  a  tranquil  moment  knowing  yoXi  are  out 
alone.  Ah!"  he  cried  desperately,  "if  only  I  might  go  with 
you  and  see  you  safely  within  your  door!  Go,  Signorina." 

"  To-morrow,"  she  said,  "  you  will  surely,  surely  come?  " 

"  To-morrow,  without  fail,  if  I  die  for  it." 

She  turned  and  left  him,  and  when  she  was  gone,  he  threw 
himself  upon  the  stones  in  front  of  the  altar  and  cried  out  in 
the  agony  of  his  soul:  "Madonna  mia  santissima,  have  pity 
upon  me !  "  He  lay  prone  on  the  floor  in  his  misery.  Too  late 
he  realized  that  he  had  sacrificed  his  youth  and  signed  his  own 
death-warrant,  the  death  of  all  the  joys  the  world  had  to  give, 
joys  his  by  right  of  birth  and  for  which  nature  had  made  him ; 
freedom,  wealth,  love,  and  in  his  thoughtless  and  tender  years 
he  had  cast  them  away  without  a  pang.  He  now  understood 
what  the  old  Prince  had  meant  by  asking  his  forgiveness  when 
dying,  "for  not  having  taken  more  interest  in  a  fatherless  boy" 
and  suddenly  the  scales  seemed  to  drop  from  his  eyes  and  he 
saw  the  suave,  plausible  Marchese  Pallavicino  and  his  own 
mother  in  their  true  light.  She,  an  unnatural,  soulless  woman, 
who  had  put  away  her  only  child  in  obscurity  and  had  plotted 
with  her  husband  to  obtain  that  child's  inheritance. 

Fauvel,  so  clever,  so  quick  to  understand,  had  once  hinted  as 
much  to  him  and  he  had  resented  it,  making  excuses  for  his 
parents.  Now  he  knew  the  artist  had  divined  rightly.  No 
wonder  his  mother  for  years  had  devised  all  sorts  of  reasons  for 
not  seeing  him ;  it  was  her  guilty  conseience.  And  now  that  he 


110  A  Cry  of  Youth 

had  come  to  manhood  she  could  not  face  him.  The  loyal  de- 
votion he  had  always  borne  her  died  in  his  heart  then  and  there 
and  in  its  place  came  exceeding  bitterness.  He  rose  with  the 
slowness  of  old  age ;  his  face,  wet  with  tears,  was  streaked  with 
the  dust  of  the  stone  floor,  and  left  the  chapel.  Looking  care- 
fully about  to  see  that  he  was  not  watched  or  followed,  he 
picked  up  a  candle,  and  made  his  way  through  the  rambling  old 
buildings  down  into  the  unused  sub-cellar,  that  for  years  had 
been  his  playroom,  his  sanctum,  his  very  own. 

Hastily  removing  the  debris  that  concealed  the  entrance,  he 
descended  the  few  steps  and  stood  for  the  last  time  upon  that 
rich  marble  floor  where  once  Caesar  had  stood,  and  lighted  the 
lamp  he  kept  there.  He  lifted  the  disc  of  lapis-lazuli  that  hid 
his  treasures;  he  unfolded  the  woolen  cloth  that  covered  them, 
and  first  of  all  taking  up  the  locket  that  held  the  miniature  of 
his  mother,  he  flung  it  upon  the  marble  floor  and  ground  it 
beneath  the  heavy  sole  of  his  sandalled  foot.  The  gold,  the 
glass  and  the  exquisite  face  painted  upon  the  frail  ivory,  were 
at  once  reduced  to  fragments.  Then  kneeling  down  he  made  a 
pile  of  all  the  letters  of  Margherita  that  had  found  their  way 
here  from  the  private  post  in  the  chestnut  tree.  He  touched 
a  match  to  them,  the  flames  consumed  them  and  the  smoke  curled 
up  the  columns  of  Numidian  marble  and  disappeared  among  the 
blurred  frescoes  of  the  domed  ceiling.  When  all  the  sparks  had 
died  out  he  gathered  up  the  ashes  into  a  sheet  of  paper  and 
folding  it  with  much  care,  laid  it  in  the  cloth.  Next  he  took  up 
a  small  gray  glove  and  pressed  it  to  his  lips  again  and  again, 
then  reverently  placed  it  beside  the  little  package  of  ashes.  Yes, 
he  must  leave  it.  Some  day,  ten  years  from  now,  if  he  lived, 
he  would  come  back  and  look  at  it. 

He  carefully  replaced  the  stone  and  trod  upon  it ;  it  sank  into 
place,  and  no  one  would  know  that  it  had  ever  been  lifted. 

The  little  wingless  statue  of  Love  smiled  at  him  from  its 
niche  as  it  had  smiled  for  two  thousand  years. 


CHAPTER   XI 

THE  ROSARY 

My  soul  nor  deigns  nor  dares  complain 
Though   grief    and    passion    there   rebel; 

I  only  know  we  loved  in  vain  — 
I  only  feel  —  Farewell !  —  Farewell ! 

BYRON. 

It  was  Sunday.  Rome  had  again  resumed  her  ordinary  as- 
pect. The  revolt  had  been  nipped  in  the  bud  and  the  city  was 
once  more  restored  to  peace  and  order. 

"  The  last  time,  the  last  time,"  Margaret  said  to  herself,  as 
the  maid  appeared  at  her  door  and  announced,  "  Un  Signore 
Prate."  * 

The  Scotti  mother  and  daughter  had  gone  to  Trastevere  for 
the  afternoon  and  she  was  alone.  On  the  threshold  of  the 
shabby  parlor  she  paused  —  was  there  anything  more  cruel  than 
"Good-bye" — a  good-bye  like  this:  hopeless,  final?  Estori 
came  forward  to  meet  her  and  took  both  her  hands.  He 
looked  better  than  yesterday  and  had  more  self-control.  For  a 
moment  neither  of  them  said  a  word,  but  each  saw  in  the  other's 
eyes  a  breaking  heart.  He  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"  I  have  just  come  from  Fauvel,"  he  began ;  "  he  tells  me  he 
is  soon  going  to  attend  a  congress  of  artists  in  Florence,  so  he 
and  I  may  meet  again.  We  are  to  visit  Franciscan  Houses  in 
the  different  cities  on  our  way  up  to  Genoa;  our  steamer  will 
sail  from  there  early  in  June." 

This  was  said  in  a  voice  that  tried  to  be  cheerful,  and  then 
they  sat  down.  They  talked  over  Margaret's  affairs  and  she 
explained  that  though  her  mother  sometimes  sent  her  a  little 
money,  she  knew  that  she  denied  herself  to  do  it,  and  felt  that 

*"A  Gentleman  Monk." 

Ill 


112  A  Cry  of  Youth 

she  ought  not  to  take  it.     And  Estori  groaned  in  his  inability 
to  help  her. 

"  Oh,"  she  sighed,  "  I  do  not  mind  poverty  if  I  could  only  be 
near  you !  " 

He  had  his  arm  about  her;  they  had  no  thought  of  impro- 
priety, they  loved  each  other  and  were  about  to  part  forever. 
"  Yes,"  she  continued,  "  I  would  sell  flowers  as  the  peasants  do 
and  be  willing  to  live  in  some  ruin  if  I  could  only  be  near  you." 

He  drew  her  closer  to  him.     How  sweet  her  words  sounded ! 

Ah,  Dio,  if  only "  Listen,"  he  said  suddenly,  "  what  was 

that?" 

"  I  do  not  hear  anything,"  Margaret  replied.  "  The  family 
are  out  and  the  maid  is  away  off  in  the  kitchen." 

"  I  thought  I  heard  footsteps,  but  perhaps  not.  Ah,  dearest, 
I  have  not  even  a  ruin  to  offer  you,"  and  he  thought  with  an- 
guish of  the  many  unused  rooms  in  his  own  father's  house, 
closed  against  him.  "  If  I  had  anything  to  leave  you,"  he  con- 
tinued, "  I  could  go  with  only  half  the  heartache  I  feel  now,  or 
if  Donna  Bianca  were  here  she  would  be  a  mother  to  you  for 
my  sake.  Ah,  Margherita,  mia,  I  can  only  leave  you  in  charge 
of  God  and  the  angels."  He  gave  a  deep  sigh;  how  far  away 
God  and  the  angels  seemed ! 

"  There  is  Fauvel,"  he  went  on ;  "  he  will  be  a  friend  to  you ; 
trust  him,  he  is  kind  and  generous,  though  he  has  some  queer 
ideas.  He  and  I  were  speaking  of  you  just  now  —  listen,"  he 
said  again,  "  surely  some  one  is  outside."  Margaret  rose  and 
opened  a  door  standing  ajar  which  led  into  a  passage.  "  You 
are  mistaken,  there  is  no  one  here."  She  sat  down  again  and 
he  put  his  arm  around  her  as  before.  "  When  I  am  gone,"  he 
continued,  "  Fauvel  will  tell  you  something  which  I  have  ar- 
ranged with  him.  There  is  a  little  money  due  me  for  some 
verses  I  wrote.  It  is  so  little,"  he  added,  flushing,  "  but  it  is 
all  I  have  that  is  mine,  and  I  want  you  to  get  something  with  it 
to  remember  me  by.  No,  do  not  say  you  will  not  take  it,"  as 
Margaret  shook  her  head ;  "  that  hurts  me  so !  If  I  were  not 


The  Rosary  113 

wearing  this  habit  you  would  give  me  the  right  to  provide  you 
with  everything,  non  e  ver?  "  * 

"  Oh !"  she  cried,  clasping  her  arms  about  his  neck,  "  I  can- 
not bear  it,  Leone !  When  I  think  of  what  we  might  have  been 
—  and  then  —  and  then  you  talk  as  one  talks  who  is  about  to 
die!" 

"  And  so  I  am,"  he  said,  "  dying  to  all  that  makes  life  dear 
to  me,"  and  he  looked  at  her  tenderly. 

"  But  I  have  taken  some  solemn  vows,  and  there  would  be 
nothing  but  disgrace  and  dishonor  for  me  "  —  then  his  tone 
changed  to  one  of  passionate  longing:  "  Ah,  molta  amata,  can 
you  suppose  I  have  not  thought  it  all  over,  day  and  night,  night 
and  day?  If  I  had  anywhere  to  take  you,  or  any  means  of 
supporting  you,  perhaps  the  temptation  might  be  too  strong." 

He  loved  her  with  all  the  strength  of  his  ardent  nature  and 
the  contact  of  her  soft,  slight  form  yielding  to  his  embrace  made 
his  pulses  beat  and  the  young  blood  rush  madly  through  his 
veins;  but  this  very  love  kept  her  sacred  in  his  mind,  something 
to  be  reverenced  and  shielded,  for  his  heart  was  pure  and  his 
senses  were  restrained  by  his  will. 

"  God's  ways  seem  strange,  carissima,"  he  continued  thought- 
fully ;  "  Fauvel  believes  that  God  intends  all  his  creatures  to  be 
happy.  He  says  that  you  and  I  were  made  to  stand  in  the  'sun- 
shine of  life.'  Fauvel  is  a  fine  man,  but  he  has  peculiar  max- 
ims, not  what  we  have  been  taught.  We  know  that  God  has 
created  some  living  things  for  the  light  and  others  for  the  shade, 
and  so  I  think  it  must  be  like  this  in  the  lives  of  some  of  his 
people,  and  you  and  I,  Margherita,  are  among  those  perhaps 
who  are  meant  for  the  shade  of  this  world  until  we  meet  in  the 
great  light  of  the  next,  to  part  no  more." 

He  rose,  and  she  knew  their  hour  had  come,  the  terrible 
"  Good-bye  "  must  be  said.  He  seemed  to  her  more  manly  than 
she  had  ever  seen  him,  to  have  grown  suddenly  older,  like  one 
who  has  fought  a  battle  with  himself  and  conquered.  He  took 

*  Is  it  not  true  ? 


114  A  Cry  of  Youth 

her  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her,  then  tried  to  disengage  hers  that 
were  tight  around  his  neck.  But  she  would  not  let  him  go ;  it 
was  just  one  more  embrace  and  then  another  and  still  another. 
The  tears  were  streaming  unrestrained  down  her  face.  He 
realized  that  he  must  have  the  strength  for  both. 

"  Carissima"  he  said,  "  I  must  go.  I  had  other  calls  to 
make,  but  I  have  spent  all  my  time  with  you.  Come  with  me 
once  more  to  San  Marco,  and  we  will  say  the  rosary  together 
for  each  other,  and  when  we  come  to  the  end  I  will  leave  you 
there  in  God's  keeping.  It  will  be  easier  so." 

She  went  into  her  room  and  put  on  her  hat,  then  together  they 
descended  the  stairs  and  went  out  into  the  street,  he  going  first 
and  she  following,  as  usual.  How  different  this  walk  from  the 
former  ones.  He  did  not  turn  back  and  smile,  but  walked 
straight  on,  across  the  Piazza  Barbarini,  down  the  Via  Tritone, 
avoiding  the  Corso  and  taking  a  shorter  route,  past  the  Foun- 
tain of  Trevi,  until  they  reached  the  Piazza.  Venezia,  and  turn- 
ing behind  it,  entered  the  old  church  so  full  of  memories. 
Without  speaking,  he  dipped  his  hand  in  the  holy  water  font 
and  turning  for  one  moment,  touched  her  fingers;  then  going 
to  a  side  chapel,  the  tomb  of  a  Cardinal,  he  knelt  and  Margaret 
knelt  beside  him.  Though  it  was  not  the  day  nor  the  season 
for  reciting  the  "  Five  Sorrowful  Mysteries,"  yet  he  chose  them 
and  taking  up  his  rosary,  kissed  the  cross  and  began  the  first 
prayer. 

"  Ave  Maria,  gratias  plena,"  and  Margaret  responded,  "  Ora 
pro  nobis  —  pray  for  us  sinners  now  and  at  the  hour  of  our 
death." 

Her  voice  was  very  low,  but  his  was  firm  and  steady. 

They  finished  the  first  decade  and  went  on  from  the  second 
to  the  third.  As  each  bead  dropped  through  her  fingers  it  was 
like  a  precious  thing  she  was  giving  away  which  she  longed  to 
keep  herself,  for  every  bead  with  its  prayer  brought  her  nearer 
to  the  end.  Only  a  few  moments  more  and  the  soft  musical 
voice,  which  she  loved  better  than  life,  in  all  probability  would 


The  Rosary  115 

never  again  fall  upon  her  ear.  She  could  scarcely  articulate  for 
the  sobs  she  was  trying  to  repress,  and  as  she  finished  each  sen- 
tence, "  at  the  hour  of  our  death,"  she  was  beseeching  Heaven 
that  that  hour  might  soon  come  and  the  agony  of  parting  be  not 
for  long. 

The  fourth  decade  was  completed  and  he  had  begun  on  the 
fifth  and  last,  "  The  Crucifixion."  A  faintness  crept  over  her, 
his  voice  sounded  far  away,  she  thought  she  was  dying.  There 
were  six  more  beads  —  she  could  never  have  the  power  to  finish 
them ;  when  the  rosary  was  all  said  she  would  scream,  she  would 
fling  herself  at  his  feet  and  cling  to  him  and  refuse  to  let  him  go. 
Now  only  four  more,  now.  three.  She  grew  weaker  and  weaker 
and  her  responses  came  slower  and  slower.  He  glanced  towards 
her  for  a  second  and  their  eyes  met.  Summoning  the  last 
shreds  of  her  will,  she  raised  her  voice  — "  Ora  pro  nobis  nunc" 
—  then  suddenly  stopped,  the  rosary  fell  from  her  hands  —  "  Go 
now,"  she  cried.  "  Oh,  my  love,  go  now  —  now !  " 

He  rose  without  another  look  or  word  of  farewell  and  turned 
from  her.  She  heard  his  soft  footfalls  receding,  then  the  church 
door  close.  It  was  like  the  first  shovelful  of  earth  falling  on 
the  coffin-lid  of  the  one  nearest  to  our  hearts.  She  sank  down, 
her  head  falling  heavily  upon  the  marble  rail,  as  still  as  death. 

She  must  have  stayed  there  a  long  time ;  the  sun  was  shining 
and  the  birds  singing  when  they  had  entered ;  now  it  was  almost 
dark.  The  only  light  was  the  sanctuary  lamp  that  shone  like 
a  blood-red  ruby  in  the  shadowy  gloom.  Some  one  touched  her 
shoulder;  it  was  the  sacristan:  "  We  are  closing  the  church  for 
the  night,  Signorina."  She  stumbled  to  her  feet,  groped  her 
way  out  and  staggered  home  in  the  twilight  like  one  drunk. 
She  went  straight  to  her  room,  undressed,  and  crept  into  bed. 
When  the  Signora  Scotti  came  and  begged  to  know  if  she  were 
ill,  or  if  she  would  have  supper,  she  answered  that  she  only 
wanted  to  be  alone.  And  the  Signora  left  her,  unable  to  compre- 
hend the  way  of  foreigners,  for  Margaret  had  made  no  moan  or 
complaint ;  she  only  wanted  to  be  alone  with  her  crushing  grief. 


CHAPTER   XII 
LEFT  ALONE 

What  I  love  best  in  all  the  world 

Is   a   castle,   precipice-encurled, 

In  a  gash  of  the  wind-griev'd  Apennines. 

ROBERT  BROWNING. 

It  was  blazing  hot  on  the  Spanish  Steps  in  the  high  glare  of 
noon,  but  in  the  old  Medici  Gardens  above  on  the  Pincian  Hill 
where  the  foliage  was  so  dense  that  the  sunshine  merely  filtered 
through,  it  was  cool.  Fauvel  had  had  business  all  the  morning 
at  the  French  Academy  and  had  sought  these  shades  for  a 
respite  from  the  heat  before  going  to  luncheon.  He  took  off 
his  hat  of  Tuscan  straw  and  wiped  his  forehead  with  his  hand- 
kerchief. It  was  now  the  first  of  June,  the  weather  was  be- 
coming intensely  warm,  and  he  congratulated  himself  that  he 
had  only  a  week  more  before  leaving  Rome,  not  to  return  until 
autumn. 

He  leaned  against  one  of  the  moss-grown  posts  of  Hermes  and 
used  his  hat  for  a  fan,  and  longed  for  that  mountain  haunt  of 
his,  where  the  soft  summer  winds  were  perfumed  with  pine 
and  syringa,  and  cooled  from  the  snowy  peaks  of  the  Apennines. 
And  yet  it  would  be  intolerably  lonely  without  his  friend  Gas- 
tonet  who  had  died  last  winter.  They  had  loved  Rocca  Serrata 
and  not  minded  the  loneliness;  its  superb  scenery,  invigorating 
air,  and  picturesqueness  were  ample  compensations  for  its  lack 
of  society,  and  they  had  enjoyed  shutting  themselves  away  from 
the  modern  world  for  several  weeks  each  year  in  this  half- 
ruined  mediaeval  castle. 

But  Gkstonet  was  gone,  and  Fauvel  knew  that  his  place  would 
be  hard  to  fill.  Very  few  of  his  friends  could  endure  the  isola- 
tion for  more  than  a  week.  They  had  advised  him  to  sell  it,  but 
this  Fauvel  did  not  feel  inclined  to  do.  He  would  travel 

116 


Left  Alone  117 

through  Umbria  this  summer  and  see  the  works  of  Giotto  and 
Perugini,  and  would  make  the  castle  his  headquarters.  Per- 
haps when  he  visited  Florence  to  attend  the  congress  of  artists 
he  might  run  across  some  kindred  spirit  who  would  enjoy  its 
seclusion  and  quiet,  whom  he  might  carry  off  to  his  beloved 
eerie. 

He  intended  to  make  a  point  of  seeing  Estori  while  in  Flor- 
ence ;  they  would  both  be  there  about  the  same  time,  and  he  did 
not  mean  to  let  the  boy  slip  through  his  ringers  without  having 
given  him  a  few  sittings.  He  believed  it  would  not  be  difficult 
to  induce  him,  if  he  used  a  certain  persuasive  argument  that 
had  been  in  his  mind  ever  since  hearing  that  the  young  monk 
was  to  be  hurried  off  to  a  land  about  as  far  away  from  his  own 
country  as  they  could  send  him. 

Fauvel  had  not  much  tolerance  for  monasticism.  Of  course 
one  must  respect  the  scholarly  Benedictines,  the  active  Dom- 
inicans and  the  self-sacrificing  Capuchins ;  but  the  minor  Fran- 
ciscans, especially,  he  deemed  lazy  and  lax,  their  aim  pointless, 
as  far  as  he  could  judge,  and  their  "metier"  indefinite.  The 
Order  had  deteriorated  since  the  days  of  its  holy  founder.  How 
he  would  like  to  wrench  Estori  from  this  unnatural  life !  But 
how  to  do  it?  Fra  Felice  with  his  childlike  guilelessness,  his 
strength  of  will  and  his  religious  nature,  had  proved  incorrupt- 
ible, and  he  knew  that  any  attempt  on  his  own  part  to  alter  the 
inside  workings  of  the  religious  houses  in  Rome  with  their  far- 
reaching  policies,  would  be  like  tapping  against  the  rock  of 
Gibraltar. 

The  cannon  from  Sant'  Angelo  boomed  the  midday  hour. 
He  set  his  watch  by  it,  put  on  his  hat  and  left  the  gardens. 

Walking  along  the  Via  Sistina,  he  met  a  friend  who  asked 
if  he  were  going  to  the  concert  to  be  given  that  night  at  the 
Costanzi.  Fauvel  had  been  out  at  Tivoli  for  ten  days  and  the 
concert  had  slipped  his  mind  entirely ;  though  he  had  subscribed 
for  a  box  he  had  not  even  made  up  his  party.  Inviting  Count 
Cassani  on  the  spot,  on  reaching  home  he  hastily  sent  out  a  note 


118  A  Cry  of  Youth 

to  Madame  Tardieu,  and  another  to  Mademoiselle  Randolph. 

When  Margaret  received  hers,  she  felt  too  broken-hearted  to 
accept,  and  she  had  not  seen  Fauvel  since  Estori  left;  but  life 
has  to  be  lived,  and  the  Signora  Scotti  urged  her  to  go,  saying 
that  the  King  and  Queen  would  be  there  and  all  the  great  ladies 
of  Rome,  and  for  what  was  that  beautiful  white  gown  lying  idle 
in  the  wardrobe? 

The  gown  to  which  the  Signora  referred  was  of  soft,  shim- 
mering white  embroidered  in  silver  thread,  and  that  evening  as 
Margaret  brought  out  each  article  of  apparel  that  went  with  it, 
there  were  ejaculations  of  delight  from  the  Scottis  who  were 
helping  her  dress.  The  white  slippers  spangled  in  silver,  the 
silk  stockings,  fine  as  a  cobweb,  the  lace  petticoat,  the  fan,  and 
the  long  white  wrap  with  a  ruche  of  tulle  at  the  neck,  and  lastly 
a  triple-strand  necklace  of  seed  pearls  that  Cousin  Cornelia  had 
given  her  on  her  eighteenth  birthday. 

"  You  are  like  a  principissa,  Signorina,"  they  both  exclaimed 
when,  the  toilet  completed,  she  stood  in  the  parlor  waiting  for 
Fauvel,  and  as  he  entered  his  eyes  swept  admiringly  over  her, 
from  the  prettily  arranged  hair  to  the  small  slippered  feet.  She 
noticed  the  glance  and  blushed  slightly. 

"  You  look  very  lovely  to-night,  Mademoiselle,"  he  said,  as 
he  escorted  her  to  the  carriage  in  which  Madame  Tardieu  was 
seated,  and  they  were  driven  away  to  the  Teatro  Costanzi. 
The  opera  house  presented  a  brilliant  scene.  The  box  in  which 
the  King  and  Queen  sat  was  draped  with  the  royal  flags,  end 
the  auditorium  was  filled  with  the  aristocracy  who  had  remained 
in  town  for  the  event.  There  were  flashing  of  diamonds  and 
waving  of  fans,  and  the  bare  necks  and  shoulders  of  fair  women 
gleamed  white  against  the  black  broadcloth  c*  Roman  princes. 

Fauvel  watched  Margaret  as  she  sat  beside  Count  Cassani ;  he 
had  often  declared  that  only  one  woman  in  a  thousand  had  a 
right  to  wear  pearls  and  she  could  do  it.  Though  with  the  eyes 
of  the  artist  he  could  see  her  only  fair,  with  the  eyes  of  the  phy- 
sician he  could  see  that  she  was  not  well.  That  extreme  white- 


Left  Alone  119 

ness  was  an  unnatural  pallor,  her  movements  were  languid,  and 
she  replied  listlessly  to  the  remarks  of  Cassani. 

"  She  is  breaking  her  heart  for  Estori,"  Fauvel  said  to  him- 
self, "  and  it  is  affecting  her  health,"  and  he  recalled  the  pa- 
thetic scene  he  had  unintentionally  witnessed.  Fauvel  would 
have  scorned  eavesdropping,  but  that  Suhday  afternoon  when 
Estori  had  made  him  a  farewell  visit  the  latter  had  said  nothing 
of  his  intention  of  going  next  door  afterward,  and  Fauvel  wish- 
ing to  speak  to  Signora  Scotti  had  crossed  over  the  adjoining 
balconies,  and  finding  no  one,  had  followed  the  sound  of  voices 
in  the  parlor  just  in  time  to  see  Margaret  throw  her  arms  about 
Estori  and  hear  her  say  she  did  not  mind  poverty  or  loneliness 
if  she  might  only  be  near  him,  that  she  loved  him  enough  to  live 
in  a  ruin  for  his  sake.  It  was  not  until  he  had  heard  his  own 
name  mentioned,  "  trust  Fauvel,"  that  he  had  realized  what  he 
was  doing;  then  he  had  fled.  He  wondered  what  was  to  be- 
come of  her.  It  would  be  dreadful  should  she  be  taken  ill 
practically  alone,  and  with  her  slender  means.  She  could  never 
take  care  of  herself,  she  was  too  refined  and  retiring  to  push 
her  way  through  life  and  fight  the  world  for  a  living;  the  world 
would  turn  and  crush  her  in  her  attempt. 

There  was  of  course  the  other  way.  He  knew  plenty  of  de- 
cent fellows  who  would  be  glad  enough  to  take  her  under  their 
protection.  She  would  do  credit  to  any  man.  But  he  had 
studied  her  for  weeks  and  knew  that  she  would  never  in  cold 
blood  accept  such  terms;  she,  like  Estori,  might  break  where 
she  would  not  bend. 

When  Fauvel  bade  her  good  night  at  the  top  of  the  stairs 
he  inquired  about  her  health,  and  she  replied  that  she  was  well 
enough,  only  "tired  all  the  time;"  then  she  thanked  him  for 
the  pleasure  of  the  evening,  and  the  Signora  Scotti,  sleepy,  can- 
dle in  hand,  took  in  the  white  girl  in  the  white  gown. 

Margaret  in  these  days  was  just  existing.  She  had  allowed 
herself  to  fall  in  love  with  Estori,  and  had  gone  on  in  a  won- 
derful secret  happiness,  stifling  her  conscience,  without  giving  a 


120  A  Cry  of  Youth 

thought  to  the  future,  or  a  sudden  parting.  If  she  had  listened 
to  that  "  still,  small  voice,"  she  would  have  been  spared  the 
heartache  of  to-day. 

The  Contessa  Melzi  had  sent  word  for  her  to  call  at  the  end 
of  the  week.  Margaret  was  feeling  particularly  depressed  as 
she  sat  waiting  in  the  little  private  reception  room  of  the  con- 
tessa,  for  she  had  just  come  from  saying  good-by  to  Madame 
Tardieu  and  the  boys  who  were  leaving  that  night.  Another 
member  of  the  quartette  to  go ;  now  there  was  only  herself  and 
Fauvel  left,  and  in  a  few  days  he  too  would  be  gone.  Well, 
she  could  not  get  away  from  Rome  too  soon,  and  the  one  light 
spot  on  her  dark  horizon  was  the  prospect  of  Switzerland. 

The  moment  the  contessa  entered,  Margaret  felt  a  disap- 
pointment in  store  for  her.  The  Signora  had  changed  her 
plans  —  was  not  coming  and  would  not  need  her  services.  The 
contessa  regretted  extremely  that  Mademoiselle's  expectations 
should  not  be  fulfilled  and  said  it  was  the  last  time  she  should 
ever  make  arrangements  for  other  people  —  as  always  some- 
thing miscarried,  and  she  strongly  advised  Margaret  to  go  home 
to  America.  The  awful  truth  was  that  her  funds  were  at  an 
end.  She  had  managed  so  carefully  that  she  had  just  enough 
to  keep  her  until  next  week,  when  this  arrangement  was  to  have 
begun  and  her  expenses  to  cease. 

It  seemed  as  if  there  were  nothing  but  to  go  home.  She 
stopped  at  the  different  steamer  offices,  finding  the  first  cabin 
prices  were  more  than  she  could  pay  and  her  pride  rebelled 
against  going  second  class.  After  the  twentieth,  they  told  her, 
the  rates  would  drop.  In  the  meantime  she  must  lessen  her 
expenses  at  the  Scottis'  in  some  way.  A  few  days  after  this  the 
Signora  Scotti  dropped  in  to  speak  to  Fauvel.  She  was  wor- 
ried, she  said,  about  the  Signorina,  and  he  inquired  as  to  what 
was  wrong.  She  told  him  first  of  all  that  the  Signorina  had 
given  up  taking  her  meals  with  them  and  had  asked  that  her 
table  board  might  be  deducted  from  her  weekly  bill. 

"  Where  does  she  go  for  her  meals?  "  he  asked. 


Left  Alone  121 

"  Signore  miof     She  does  not  take  any  at  all." 

"Does  not  eat  at  all?  Absurd!  You  must  be  mistaken, 
my  good  friend." 

"  All  she  takes  is  tea  and  crackers,"  the  woman  insisted.  "  I 
see  her  make  the  tea  in  her  room  on  a  little  spirit  lamp  and  she 
keeps  a  box  of  biscotti  on  her  shelf,  and  she  cries  much." 

Fauvel  was  very  thoughtful  after  Signora  Scotti  left,  and 
later  he  wrote  a  note  to  Margaret  asking  if  she  would  stop  in 
at  the  studio  the  next  afternoon  and  see  him  on  a  little  matter 
of  business.  He  knew  that  if  he  called  upon  her  he  would  not 
be  free  to  say  what  he  wished,  as  the  Scotti  women  always 
seemed  to  think  it  their  duty  to  come  and  entertain  him  as  well. 

It  was  several  days  now  since  Margaret  had  eaten  solid  food 
and  she  was  hungry  all  the  time.  Again  and  again  she  would 
count  over  the  remainder  of  her  money  to  see  if  she  could  spare 
just  a  franc  to  buy  some  dried  fish,  eggs,  or  any  little  thing  to 
help  with  the  crackers,  but  each  time  concluded  she  dared  not 
do  it.  When  she  walked  out  in  the  cool  of  the  late  afternoons 
she  would  stop  and  gaze  into  the  windows  of  the  tea  rooms  and 
cafes,  where  the  delicious  cakes  and  brioches  were  displayed  so 
temptingly,  and  how  could  the  beggars  guess,  when  she  refused 
them  a  coin,  that  the  Signorina  in  the  pretty  summer  costume 
was  as  hungry  as  themselves. 

She  went  often  to  see  old  Assunta,  and  once  had  found  her 
baking  her  black  bread  and  had  become  so  interested  that  the 
old  woman  timidly  offered  her  a  loaf,  which  she  had  gladly 
accepted ;  she  went  away  clasping  the  still  warm  bread,  done  up 
in  newspaper  and  that  evening  served  it  on  her  lonely  little  sup- 
per table,  instead  of  the  crackers. 

It  was  Giacinta's  day  for  visiting  her,  and  while  brushing  out 
Margaret's  long,  thick  hair,  the  woman  told  her  how  glad  she 
was  she  had  decided  to  go  home,  though  she  should  miss  her 
greatly.  "  Have  I  not  always  said,"  Giacinta  continued,  "  that 
you  are  too  young  to  be  alone  cost?"  Giacinta  had  a  protect- 
ing feeling  in  her  heart  for  the  little  lonely  "  Americana"  so  she 


122  A  Cry  of  Youth 

chatted  on :  "  Something  tells  me  that  it  will  not  be  long  before 
a  young  Signore  bravissimo  will  take  you  to  a  beautiful  home, 
and  remember  that  Giacinta  is  to  come  and  live  with  you,  Sig- 
norina  mia?  " 

"I  shall  never  marry,"  Margaret  answered,  in  a  small,  pa- 
thetic voice,  "  but  if  it  is  ever  possible  I  will  send  for  you,  dear, 
dear  Giacinta,"  and  she  arose  and  put  her  arms  around  the 
woman's  neck,  and  kissed  her  motherly  face. 

As  Giacinta  was  leaving  Romilla  Scotti  entered  and  placed 
two  letters  upon  the  bed ;  one  was  in  Fauvel's  handwriting,  the 
other  in  Josephine's.  Margaret  opened  her  sister's  first. 

Dear  Margaret: 

Mother  is  very  ill.  Do  not  be  alarmed,  it  is  just  a  bad  case  of 
nervous  prostration.  She  is  now  in  a  Sanitarium,  and  it  looks  as 
if  it  might  be  weeks  before  she  regains  her  strength.  Dr.  Parkham 
says  she  must  give  up  all  idea  of  ever  going  back  to  her  pos'tion; 
and  Phil,  who  has  always  objected  to  her  doing  anything,  insists 
upon  her  making  her  home  with  us  in  future. 

Of  course  you  understand  that  I  really  could  not  ask  him  to  do 
anything  for  you,  so  it  is  most  fortunate  that  you  are  away,  and  able 
to  take  care  of  yourself.  If  I  had  anything  of  my  own  I  would  be 
glad  to  help  you,  but  I  have  nothing  except  what  my  husband  gives 
me,  and  you  could  have  had  a  richer  husband  than  mine,  you  poor, 
misguided  child.  Worry  over  you  has  helped  to  bring  on  mother's 
illness,  so  for  heaven's  sake  don't  write  home  any  troubles.  I'm  so 
glad  you're  going  to  have  a  summer  in  Switzerland.  I  hope  it  will 
do  you  lots  of  good  and  that  you  will  '  make  good.' 

Mother  has  had  to  give  up  her  apartment  and  I  am  having  the 
furniture  sold,  it  will  help  to  pay  a  few  of  her  debts,  so  you  see 
there's  no  place  for  you  to  come  to  — 

Margaret  could  read  no  more.  She  was  appalled  by  the 
news.  Alarmed  for  her  mother,  and  that  now  she  had  no  home, 
but  was  at  the  end  of  her  resources  and  had  nowhere  in  the 
world  to  go!  She  was  confronted  suddenly  with  the  frightful 
proposition  that  she  must  live  without  anything  to  live  upon. 
Oh,  why  had  she  ever  come  to  Italy,  or,  worse  still,  why  had 
she  let  Estori  go  without  trying  to  keep  him  ?  They  had  both 
accepted  his  fate  so  easily ;  they  should  have  fought  it.  Oh,  the 


Left  Alone  123 

horror  of  having  not  a  soul  to  turn  to!  If  Cousin  Cornelia 
really  knew  the  dreadful  straits  she  was  in,  would  she  be  so 
hard-hearted?  Should  she  dare  venture  to  appeal  to  her?  No, 
no ;  for  in  one  of  Josephine's  former  letters  she  had  said :  "  Re- 
member, you  undertook  to  '  paddle  your  own  canoe,'  and  Cousin 
Cornelia  has  no  further  use  for  you."  Wallace  Grant,  after 
the  broken  engagement,  had  written  her:  "  I  believe  I  shall 
always  love  you,  and  should  you  ever  need  me  as  a  friend,  call 
upon  me."  But  no,  no,  neither  could  she  appeal  to  him;  under 
the  circumstances  she  would  rather  be  dead  than  drag  her  pride 
in  the  dust  like  that!  If  she  only  could  die  —  how  sweet  death 
would  be  to-day,  just  to  go  to  sleep  with  no  awakening  to 
heartache,  hunger  and  homelessness !  "  Oh,  Leone,"  she  cried, 
"  why  are  you  not  here  to  help  me !  You  would  have  thought 
and  planned  for  me,  so  that  I  might  help  myself."  All  her 
assistance  had  come  through  him,  and  he  had  gotten  her  pupils 
through  Fauvel,  Fauvel  —  she  had  forgotten  to  read  his  note. 

Tearing  it  open  nervously,  she  scanned  it.  She  would  see 
what  he  wanted.  She  slipped  on  a  dress  and  ran  next  door. 
She  found  the  place  in  disorder ;  pictures  turned  with  their  faces 
to  the  wall  and  the  canvases  on  the  easels  covered  with  sheets. 
The  door  was  open  into  the  luxurious  "  lounge  "  and  she  could 
see  that  this  room  also  was  dismantled  and  his  man  in  there 
packing.  The  artist  was  preparing  for  his  departure. 

Fauvel  was  shocked  at  Margaret's  appearance.  She  had 
grown  thin  in  the  last  few  days,  he  thought.  She  was  white 
as  the  linen  dress  she  wore,  and  her  fine,  arched  eyebrows 
looked  more  like  pencil  strokes  than  ever  upon  the  whiteness  of 
her  forehead.  Her  expression  puzzled  him ;  it  was  a  mixture  of 
dread,  hopelessness,  and  despair.  She  sank  into  the  offered  chair 
as  if  she  were  weary  in  body  and  mind. 

"  Mademoiselle,"  he  said,  closing  the  door  that  led  into  the 
adjoining  room  where  his  servant  was  at  work,  "  I  am  going 
away,  as  you  know,  and  will  be  in  Florence  for  the  next  ten 
days;  afterwards  I  shall  be  in  Perugia,  and  I  want  to  give  you 


124  A  Cry  of  Youth 

the  address  of  my  bankers  there,  who  will  receive  my  mail 
through  the  summer.  I  hope  you  will  let  me  hear  from  you 
and  that  if  I  can  be  of  any  service  you  will  allow  me  that  privi- 
lege. But  before  I  go  —  is  there  anything  I  can  do  for  you 
now?" 

She  thanked  him  faintly.  "  No,"  she  said ;  "  no,  nothing, 
unless  you  know  of  some  pupils,  or  some  position  I  could 
take." 

"  Unfortunately,"  he  replied,  "  I  do  not.  Every  one  is  leav- 
ing the  city  who  can  possibly  do  so,  and  until  autumn,  Mad- 
emoiselle, there  will  be  only  transients  and  tourists  here." 

Then  there  was  a  pause.  She  wanted  to  tell  him  of  the 
desperate  situation  into  which  she  was  suddenly  thrown  and 
ask  his  advice,  but  it  would  make  her  feel  like  an  outcast  to 
admit  that  there  was  nobody  —  nobody  to  whom  she  had  a 
right  to  turn.  She  tried  to  speak,  but  words  stuck  in  her 
throat. 

Fauvel  broke  the  pause  by  asking  how  much  longer  she  was 
going  to  stay  in  Rome.  She  replied  that  she  did  not  know  ex- 
actly. 

"  I  understood  from  Signora  Scotti,"  he  said,  "  that  you  were 
arranging  to  return  to  the  United  States." 

A  look  of  pain  passed  over  her  face.  "I  —  I  cannot  go  just 
yet " 

"  Once  when  I  was  quite  young  and  away  from  home,"  he 
continued,  "  my  remittance  did  not  come  when  expected,  and 
I  borrowed  from  a  friend.  If  that  is  the  case  with  you,  Mad- 
emoiselle, will  you  not  let  me  advance  you,  until  it  comes  from 
your  family?  " 

The  blood  suddenly  rushed  to  her  face,  dyeing  it  crimson, 
then  left  her  deathly  pale ;  the  white  lips  began  to  tremble,  the 
dark  eyes  filled  with  tears  and  in  another  instant  she  had  thrown 
herself  over  the  arm  of  the  chair  and  was  shaking  with  sobs. 

"  Mademoiselle,  ma  chere"  he  exclaimed,  "  what  have  I 
said?  What  is  the  matter?  Tell  me  what  it  is,  you  can  trust 


Left  Alone  125 

me,  surely;"  then  he  added  gently:  "I  want  to  help  you; 
Fra  Felice  would  trust  me." 

But  at  the  mention  of  that  name  she  only  sobbed  more  pite- 
ously.  Fauvel  kindly  but  firmly  insisted  upon  her  drinking  a 
glass  of  some  restorative  cordial.  It  soothed  her  overstrained 
nerves,  and  then  he  learned  that  her  mother  was  seriously  ill, 
her  home  was  broken  up,  her  sister  would  do  nothing  for  her, 
and  that  she  had  been  disappointed  in  the  position  upon  which 
she  had  staked  her  all.  She  had  only  money  enough  left  to  pay 
for  a  room  a  week  or  two  longer  —  there  was  no  question  of  a 
remittance  from  America,  and  she  must  —  she  must  find  some 
means  of  support. 

Again  he  begged  her  to  accept  a  loan.  She  had  never  bor- 
rowed money  in  her  life  she  said.  He  told  her  that  later  in 
the  summer  he  would  have  some  money  which  belonged  to  her, 
to  be  paid  him  by  the  magazine  that  had  bought  Estori's  verses, 
and  which  the  latter  had  charged  him  to  give  to  her;  she  could 
return  it  then  if  her  circumstances  permitted ;  he  was  not  par- 
ticular as  to  when  he  should  be  reimbursed.  He  insisted  upon 
her  taking  a  two-hundred-/ire  note,  and  said  she  would  hear 
from  him  shortly,  that  he  would  interest  himself  to  see  that  she 
was  provided  for,  but  that  she  must  take  care  of  her  health, 
and  she  must  eat. 

Then  he  sent  his  man  out  for  hot  chicken  and  vegetables, 
and  good  red  wine,  and  they  had  a  picnic  supper  together  in  the 
dismantled  room,  and  a  little  color  came  back  to  her  pale  cheeks 
and  lips. 

After  he  went  with  her  down  to  her  own  door  he  lighted  a 
cigar  and  walked  in  the  direction  of  the  Porta  Pia,  and  out 
on  the  Via  Nomentana  to  breathe  fresher  air,  and  do  some 
thinking.  He  could  not  leave  Margherita  to  starve,  yet  it  was 
difficult  to  know  just  what  to  do  in  circumstances  like  hers. 
However,  his  brain  was  fertile,  his  hand  free  and  his  purse  full, 
and  he  had  solved  greater  problems  than  this. 

The  next  morning  Margaret  looked  from  the  parlor  window 


126  A  Cry  of  Youth 

and  saw  Fauvel  get  into  the  cab  that  stood  waiting.  It  was 
piled  with  his  luggage  and  the  great  brass  cage  with  the  macaw 
was  on  the  seat  beside  him.  He  waved  good-bye  to  her  until 
the  cab  turned  the  corner,  and  then  she  drew  in  the  blinds  to 
keep  out  the  fierce  heat  of  the  sun,  and  sank  down  upon  the  hair- 
cloth sofa.  Her  last  friend  was  gone. 


PART  II 
"THE   BELMONTES" 


CHAPTER   XIII 

THE  CASTLE  IN  UMBRIA 

Gray  ruins  loom  on  every  side, 
Each  stone  an  age's  story; 
They  seem  the  very  ghosts  of  pride 
That  watch  the  grave  of  glory. 

RTAN. 

Ten  long  hot  weary  days  went  by,  and  Margaret  heard  •oth- 
ing  from  Fauvel;  then  when  she  had  nearly  lost  hope  a  letter 
had  come  from  him  and  she  had  acted  upon  it  promptly,  not 
considering  what  she  was  doing  until  she  found  herself  m  the 
midnight  train,  steaming  out  of  Rome. 

The  artist  had  written  that  he  knew  of  a  position  which  he 
thought  she  could  fill,  and  to  come  at  once  to  Perugia,  where  he 
would  meet  her.  He  would  explain  everything  when  he  saw 
her;  if  she  found  herself  dissatisfied  or  unhappy  she  would  be 
free  to  return,  with  her  expenses  paid.  The  letter  was  regis- 
tered and  contained  money  for  her  ticket. 

Now  that  the  rush  and  excitement  of  sudden  leave-taking 
were  over,  as  she  sat  in  the  railway  carriage  marked  Signore 
sole  *  with  her  hat  in  her  lap  and  her  belongings  beside  her,  she 
had  time  to  reflect.  Fauvel  had  not  said  what  the  position  was, 
nor  mentioned  the  name  of  the  family  or  person  with  whom  she 
was  to  live.  Had  she  been  rash  in  obeying  the  summons ;  what 
else  was  there  for  her  to  do?  Every  friend  she  had  in  Rome 
was  gone,  and  she  knew,  alas,  how  limited  she  was  as  to  work ; 
there  seemed  only  this  between  her  and  starvation,  but  yet  — 
but  yet  —  however,  she  had  done  it  now,  she  must  face  it,  what- 
ever it  was,  and  had  not  Estori  told  her  to  "  trust  Fauvel "  ? 

She  dozed  off  and  on  through  the  journey.  During  her  wake- 
ful moments  she  would  shade  her  eyes  from  the  dim  light  in  the 

*  Ladies  only. 

129 


130  A  Cry  of  Youth 


compartment  and  look  out  upon  the  moonlit  country.  At  dawn 
she  began  to  grow  apprehensive.  Suppose  Fauvel  should  fail 
to  meet  her  —  suppose  —  a  thousand  things ! 

But  when  only  a  little  later  the  train  drew  in  at  the  station, 
there  was  the  familiar  blond  head  and  beard  that  seemed  now 
to  belong  to  her  kindest  friend,  and  all  fears  vanished  when  he 
greeted  her  in  his  courteous,  cordial  way.  After  he  had  taken 
her  to  a  hotel  and  ordered  breakfast,  he  told  how  he  had  invited 
friends  to  spend  the  summer  with  him,  at  his  old  castle  in  the 
Umbrian  mountains.  They  were  to  keep  house  for  him  and 
look  after  his  interests  while  he  went  off  on  short  trips.  He 
wanted  them  to  be  contented,  for  it  was  very  lonely  up  there  at 
"  Rocca  Serrata,"  and  it  would  be  pleasanter  for  all  to  have 
another  young  person  in  the  house,  and  he  had  thought  of  her. 
He  particularly  wished  to  make  the  Signor  and  Signora  Bel- 
monte  contented,  he  said ;  he  was  fond  of  them  and  the  Signore 
was  useful  to  him  in  his  work. 

"  Am  I  to  be  the  companion  of  the  Signora?  "  she  asked. 

"  You  are  to  be  my  guest ;  yes,  company  for  us  all." 

"  But  there  must  be  some  regular  duties,"  Margaret  ventured 
timidly.  "  You  wrote,  Monsieur,  that  you  knew  of  a  position 
I  could  fill,  and  although  it  sounds  very  delightful  and  you  are 
always  kind,  I  should  not  like  to  accept  your  hospitality  unless 
I  could  make  myself  useful !  " 

"  The  duties  will  arrange  themselves,  Mademoiselle,  when 
you  are  settled.  Do  not  let  that  worry  you.  I  know  your  cir- 
cumstances and  am  trying  to  plan  and  provide  for  you  in  what 
appears  to  me  the  best  way ;  and  remember  I  also  wrote  that  if 
everything  should  not  prove  satisfactory  you  will  be  free  to  go ; 
but  I  believe  you  will  be  happy,"  and  that  strange,  unreadable 
expression  she  had  noticed  in  Rome  was  upon  his  face.  "  And 
now,"  he  added,  "  you  must  take  another  egg,  as  we  have  a  long 
drive  ahead.  I  have  had  some  luncheon  put  up,  for  we  cannot 
get  anything  fit  to  eat  on  the  way."  She  asked  hesitatingly  if  he 
had  seen  Fra  Felice ! 


The  Castle  in  Umbria          131 

"  Yes,  in  Florence,"  he  answered. 

"How  did  he  look?" 

"  Badly,  badly." 

Margaret  turned  her  face  away  so  that  he  might  not  see  the 
tears  that  started. 

"  Do  you  know  when  his  ship  is  to  sail?  "  she  asked  again. 

"  On  Saturday." 

On  Saturday,  and  this  was  Tuesday!  There  were  three 
more  days  in  which  she  could  still  reach  him;  if  she  only  had 
the  money  and  independence  to  go,  she  would  cling  to  him,  she 
would  entreat  him  not  to  leave  her.  The  knowledge  that  he 
was  still  in  Italy,  where  she  could  not  see  him  or  write  to  him, 
made  it  all  the  harder  to  bear;  when  he  was  once  out  of  the 
country,  irrevocably  gone,  perhaps  it  would  be  easier.  Ah, 
why  had  not  fate  ordered  that  Fauvel  was  to  take  her  to  Genoa, 
instead  of  to  his  old  castle  ?  —  oh,  she  must  think  of  something 
else,  quick,  quick,  before  her  tears  should  fall.  The  place  to 
which  she  was  going  came  first  to  her  mind.  "  Is  Rocca  Ser- 
rata  far  from  here?  "  she  asked. 

"  Not  so  far  in  actual  miles,"  he  replied,  "  but  it  is  inac- 
cessible and  away  from  the  railroad.  I  have  a  strong  coach 
built  purposely  for  mountain  travel;  it  will  be  here  at  ten 
o'clock." 

When  Margaret  was  seated  in  the  stout,  comfortable  convey- 
ance with  its  heavy  brakes,  her  two  trunks  strapped  on  behind 
with  some  boxes  and  packages  belonging  to  Fauvel,  she  felt  as  if 
another  chapter  in  her  life  were  about  to  begin. 

They  soon  left  Perugia  behind  and  were  striking  out  into 
what  is  known  as  the  great  Umbrian  plain.  It  was  a  perfect 
summer  day.  The  grass  was  full  of  wild  flowers  and  there 
were  whole  meadows  of  pink  and  white  clover.  Further  on 
was  a  long  stretch  of  vineyards,  where  the  vines  even  climbed 
the  trunks  of  great  oaks,  and  the  ground  was  thick  with  broom 
and  mignonette,  and  beyond  were  acres  of  wheat  dotted  with 
scarlet  poppies. 


132  A  Cry  of  Youth 


In  about  an  hour's  time  the  road,  hedged  with  hawthorne 
bushes,  began  to  ascend ;  wild  roses  crept  up  the  sides  of  the  hill 
along  which  they  were  traveling;  they  reached  the  top,  de- 
scended into  a  shady  valley,  and  rose  again.  They  seemed  to  be 
passing  over  a  rolling  sea  of  verdure,  and  beyond  the  mountains 
loomed  high,  bare  and  majestic,  while  upon  almost  every  sum- 
mit was  a  battlemented  town  or  fortress. 

"How  lovely  this  is!"  Margaret  exclaimed.  "And  the 
air,  how  fresh  it  has  become  —  so  different  from  Rome!  " 

"  It  will  be  quite  cool  before  our  drive  is  over,"  Fauvel  said, 
"  when  we  are  really  in  the  mountains ;  we  are  only  skirting  the 
foothills  now." 

Every  few  miles  they  came  to  a  small,  dirty  town,  apparently 
forgotten  by  the  world.  The  whole  population  turned  out  to 
gape  at  them  as  they  drove  along  its  principal  street  or  watered 
their  horses  at  the  mediaeval  fountain  of  its  piazza. 

Soon  there  was  a  decided  change  in  the  aspect  of  the  land- 
scape. The  vineyards,  olive  groves  and  fertile  plains  disap- 
peared, and  instead  of  the  hawthorn  and  wild  rose  that  hedged 
the  roads,  there  were  boulders  of  dark  volcanic  rock,  the  moun- 
tains gathered  in  more  and  more  closely,  the  country  becoming 
wilder  with  every  mile,  and  here  and  there  a  lofty  snow-capped 
peak  glistened  in  the  sunshine. 

Margaret  had  been  very  quiet.  What  would  her  family 
say  if  they  could  see  her  journeying  all  alone  with  a  Belgian 
artist,  and  an  Italian  driver  who  looked  like  a  cut-throat?  Had 
she  done  an  imprudent,  shocking  thing?  Surely,  surely  Fauvel 
was  all  right.  Madame  Tardieu  had  known  him  for  years, 
she  had  always  heard  him  well  spoken  of,  and  had  he  not  been 
kindness  itself  to  her? 

A  pinnacle  of  rock  loomed  up  in  front  of  them,  casting  a  dark 
shadow  over  everything.  She  shivered  slightly;  there  was  an 
awesome  feeling  in  these  vast  heights.  The  road  wound  around 
the  base  of  the  rock,  then  began  to  ascend  gradually.  The 


The  Castle  in  Umbria          133 

horses  now  felt  the  burden  they  were  drawing,  for  the  driver 
was  urging  them  on  in  surly  tones. 

It  was  just  the  spot,  Margaret  thought,  for  brigands  in  these 
clefts  and  gorges  to  jump  out  and  seize  them.  She  suggested 
this  to  Fauvel,  who  smiled  and  said  he  had  traveled  over  this 
road  for  five  seasons  and  had  never  had  any  disturbance.  "  Be- 
sides, you  know  the  caribonieri  patrol  the  country  day  and 
night,  and  I  am  armed  as  well,"  showing  her  a  revolver. 
"Would  Mademoiselle  enjoy  an  adventure?" 

"  No,  no,"  she  answered.  She  felt  she  was  having  adventure 
enough. 

Up  and  up  they  went.  What  had  looked  to  her  like  bare 
mountain  sides  from  a  distance  she  now  saw  were  covered  with 
a  dense  forest  growth. 

After  her  night's  journey  and  the  long  ride  she  leaned  back 
drowsily;  Fauvel  wrapped  a  shawl  about  her  and  before  she 
knew  it  she  was  asleep.  She  was  awakened  by  a  touch,  and  he 
pointed  ahead  of  them.  Set  high  above,  upon  a  lonely  bluff, 
she  saw  the  massive  towers  and  crenelated  walls  of  a  great  cas- 
tle, commanding  the  valley  with  its  mighty  keep. 

"  Rocca  Serrata,"  he  said. 

"  Oh,  how  beautiful !  how  beautiful !  "  she  exclaimed. 

The  castle  stood  like  a  crown  upon  a  crag  of  the  bluff,  which 
jutted  out  from  a  stupendous  rock;  so  sharp,  so  high,  so  pointed 
that  it  seemed  to  pierce  the  sky. 

They  were  approaching  it  by  a  rough  steep  slope  curving 
around  a  forlorn  hamlet,  crouched  in  a  hollow  of  the  rock  as  if 
in  fear  of  its  damp,  dark  shadow.  An  old  woman  sat  in  a 
doorway  spinning,  a  herdsman  was  driving  his  goats  through  the 
muddy  street,  and  pigs  and  chickens  went  in  and  out  of  the 
wretched  dwellings  quite  as  much  at  home  as  the  dirty  children 
playing  before  them.  When  they  neared  the  crest  of  the  hill 
the  unwholesome  shades  gave  place  to  sunshine  and  bloom. 

Now  they  were  turning  into  a  road  between  surrounding 


134  A  Cry  of  Youth 

walls  broken  through  in  many  places,  giving  glimpses  of  old 
gardens  and  terraces  within. 

"  Oh,  how  beautiful !  "  Margaret  repeated,  straightening  her- 
self and  sitting  up  to  get  a  better  view,  while  she  drew  in  with 
deep  draughts  the  pure  sweet  air.  "I  have  read  of  such  places, 
but  I  never  thought  I  should  really,  really  live  in  one." 

Rocca  Serrata,  though  imposing  from  a  distance,  upon  closer 
inspection  was  crumbling  and  ruinous.  Half  of  the  northern 
tower  had  fallen,  and  the  debris  lay  below,  overgrown  with 
vines  and  weeds;  other  portions  were  mouldering  and  dilapi- 
dated, but  its  sub-structure  of  huge  blocks  of  volcanic  stone 
was  made  to  defy  time.  The  entrance  did  not  face  the  valley, 
but  the  rock  behind  it,  which  in  reality  was  an  eighth  of  a  mile 
away,  though  from  some  points  of  view  it  appeared  as  if  the 
castle  were  built  right  out  in  front  of  it.  Yet  when  the  light 
fell  directly  from  above  and  all  contrasts  of  brightness  and 
shadow  were  merged  in  a  sunny  haze,  the  castle  sank  into  the 
towering  rock  and  was  almost  obliterated.  Only  in  the  morn- 
ing when  the  sun  shone  full  upon  it,  or  towards  evening  as  its 
slanting  rays  touched  the  mountain  side  beyond  it,  did  it  come 
again  int,o  prominence. 

The  road  between  the  walls  ended  before  massive  feudal 
gates  of  iron,  standing  hospitably  open  and  rusting  upon  their 
hinges;  through  them  they  drove  into  a  broad  paved  court 
enclosed  by  the  same  high  walls.  There  was  an  arched  passage 
with  a  portcullis,  a  filled-in  moat,  and  an  oaken  door  heavily 
studded  with  spiked  nails,  huge  bolts  and  a  knocker.  Beside 
the  door  upon  a  stone  bench  an  unkempt  boy  sat  dozing. 

"  Welcome  to  Rocca  Serrata,  Mademoiselle,"  Fauvel  said 
as  they  alighted,  while  the  boy  came  shuffling  over  the  flags, 
giving  an  awkward  bow  to  the  padrone,  and  a  nod  of  recogni- 
tion to  the  driver  whom  he  proceeded  to  help  with  the  luggage. 

Margaret  felt  a  flutter  of  nervousness,  for  presently  she 
should  meet  the  Belmontes;  would  they  like  her,  she  wondered, 
and  would  she  like  them?  They  entered  a  long,  empty  room 


The  Castle  in  Umbria          135 

entirely  of  stone,  paved  in  the  same  rough  way  as  the  court- 
yard and  blackened  by  the  smoke  of  torches  clamped  into  the 
walls.  No  one  was  to  be  seen  except  an  old  man  holding  a 
bunch  of  ponderous  keys;  he  was  bowing  low. 

"  Well,  Clemente,"  Fauvel  began,  "  have  you  arranged  the 
apartments  as  I  directed,  and  has  Lisa  made  everything  com- 
fortable?" 

"  Yes,  lllustruissima,  yes,"  he  replied ;  "  everything  is  pre- 
pared." 

"  Come,  Mademoiselle,"  said  Fauvel,  and  Margaret  followed, 
Clemente  leading  the  way. 

The  silence  of  the  place  was  grewsome;  not  a  sound  was  to 
be  heard  except  their  own  footfalls  over  the  cement  flooring  and 
the  metallic  rattle  of  the  old  man's  keys.  It  seemed  to  her  as 
if  centuries  must  have  rolled  by  since  any  one  had  walked  over 
the  cracked  and  sunken  pavement  of  these  corridors,  where 
cobwebs  clung  to  the  vaulted  ceilings,  and  the  light  coming  in 
through  narrow  slit  windows,  showed  of  what  tremendous 
thickness  the  walls  were  made. 

They  ascended  a  stair  worn  with  the  feet  of  many  genera- 
tions, and  turned  down  another  corridor  which  was  lighter  and 
more  airy,  round-arched  instead  of  vaulted,  and  oddly  frescoed 
with  the  signs  of  the  zodiac.  It  also  appeared  not  quite  so 
ancient,  cleaner  and  in  tetter  repair.  There  were  doors  on 
either  side ;  one  of  them  was  open,  and  before  it  they  stopped. 

Fauvel  motioned  Margaret  to  enter;  then  he  dismissed 
Clemente,  telling  him  to  send  Lisa. 

But  Margaret  stood  on  the  threshold,  and  turned  to  him. 
"  The  Belmontes,"  she  said,  "  where  are  they?  " 

"You  will  meet  them  to-night  at  dinner;  enter,  Mademoi- 
selle." 

"  Monsieur,"  she  began,  "  I  do  not  understand.  You  have 
been  kind  to  me  —  oh,  so  very  kind,  but  there  seems  to  be  no 
one  here  but  you  and  me,  and  your  old  servant." 

"  There  might  be  five  hundred  here,  Mademoiselle,  and  you 


136  A  Cry  of  Youth 


need  never  know  it,  this  house  is  so  big;  there  are  accommoda- 
tions for  a  score  of  prisoners  alone,  in  the  dungeons  far  below." 
He  pointed  downward  with  one  hand  and  with  the  other  again 
motioned  her  to  enter. 

She  smiled  faintly,  saying:  "  I  hope  there  are  no  poor  pris- 
oners down  there  now." 

"  Not  in  the  dungeons,"  he  answered;  "  though  as  a  matter 
of  fact  there  is  a  prisoner  in  the  house." 

"  That  sounds  interesting,  and  terrible  both,  Monsieur.  I 
did  not  know  that  private  individuals  had  the  right  to  keep 
prisoners  nowadays !  " 

"  They  have  not,  but  in  these  parts  a  good  deal  of  the  old 
feudal  law  obtains.  The  owner  of  the  estate  is  still  lord  and 
ruler  to  a  large  extent.  Perhaps  it  would  interest  you  to  help 
this  one  escape." 

"  Perhaps,"  Margaret  answered,  in  a  voice  slightly  strained. 

This  reception  at  the  castle  was  not  very  encouraging,  and 
in  spite  of  Fauvel's  smiling  face  and  courteous  manner  she  felt 
disconcerted  and  apprehensive. 

"  I  see  you  are  not  in  the  humor  for  jests,  Mademoiselle," 
he  said ;  "  also  that  you  are  fatigued.  I  beg  you  will  rest  and 
refresh  yourself.  We  will  not  dine  until  eight  o'clock.  You 
will  have  time  for  sleep.  I  have  sent  for  Lisa  to  wait  upon 
you,  and  bring  you  some  tea;  your  trunks  will  be  here  directly 
—  and,  Mademoiselle,  will  you  do  me  a  favor?  I  have  ar- 
ranged a  little  festa  for  to-night,  and  I  should  like  to  have  you 
wear  the  same  white  dress  you  wore  to  the  concert  at  the  Cos- 
tanzi  in  Rome,  will  you  ?  " 

"  Certainly,  Monsieur,  if  you  request  it." 

Then  Fauvel  left  her. 

She  entered  the  room  and  glanced  around.  It  was  a  spa- 
cious apartment,  with  an  old-time  dignity  about  its  tarnished 
gilt  cornices  and  faded  draperies,  its  long  oak  chests  that  looked 
like  coffins,  and  its  mirrored  wardrobe.  It  had  a  musty  odor 
In  spite  of  the  fine,  dry  air  that  was  blowing  in  through  the 


The  Castle  in  Umbria          137 

open  windows,  but  on  the  whole  it  pleased  her  and,  oh  —  bliss- 
ful thought,  no  board  bill  would  be  presented  for  it ! 

She  hoped  the  Belmontes'  rooms  were  near  by.  It  would  be 
awful  to  stay  at  night  all  alone  in  this  "  spooky  "  place,  and 
sleep  in  that  formidable  four-post  bed  decked  with  moth-eaten 
plumes,  that  reminded  her  of  a  hearse.  Fortunately  there  was 
a  bell-cord  with  a  fat,  threadbare  tassel.  How  delightful  it 
would  be  if  Madame  Tardieu  were  a  guest  here  also,  and  — 
and  that  other  one  who  was  set  apart  —  who  — 

She  gazed  out  of  the  window  upon  the  vast  stretch  of  moun- 
tains, and  a  wave  of  heartsickness  and  loneliness  took  posses- 
sion of  her,  as  she  thought  of  how  he  would  soon  be  upon  the 
vast  ocean,  sailing  farther  and  farther  away,  without  even  leav- 
ing her  a  hope  of  ever  seeing  him  again. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE  MOON-LIT  STAIR 

There  is  no  love  like  my  loving; 

New  bathed  in  the  fount  of  truth, 
Heart  baring  and  hand  ungloving, 

In  the  passionate  pledge  of  youth, 
I  move  in  the  dream-light  splendor 

Of  a  soul  to  ecstasy  stung  — 
An  ardor,  a  wild  surrender 

None  know  but  the  young,  the  young! 

L.  B.  EDWARDS. 

After  having  bathed  and  slept  Margaret  felt  refreshed  and 
rested,  and  Lisa,  the  wife  of  Clemente,  came  to  help  her  dress. 
Afterwards  Lisa  had  conducted  her  through  a  labyrinth  of  pas- 
sages, and  stairs  to  where  Fauvel  was  waiting. 

He  stood  inside  the  door  of  a  once  gorgeous  saloon,  having 
remnants  of  velvet  and  satin  hangings,  tapestried  walls,  large 
double  doors  with  decorated  panels,  and  rich  but  faded  rugs 
upon  the  floor.  He  came  forward  to  meet  her,  kissing  her 
hand.  She  was  even  more  attractive,  he  thought,  than  on  the 
night  at  the  opera,  for  then  she  had  worn  long  gloves,  while 
now  her  slender,  round  arms  were  bare,  as  well  as  her  pretty 
neck  and  shoulders.  Her  childish  face,  though  still  sad,  had 
lost  the  terrible,  anxious  expression  that  had  so  distressed  him 
in  Rome. 

"  That  is  a  very  beautiful  gown,  Mademoiselle,"  he  said ; 
"  its  nondescript  style  makes  it  suitable  for  any  era  and  partic- 
ularly accords  with  these  surroundings;  all  that  is  needed  now 
to  complete  the  picture  is  a  young  knight  at  your  feet.  But 
tell  me,  how  do  you  like  my  mountain  retreat  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  like  it,  I  like  it!  "  she  said.  "  I  feel  as  if  I  were  a 
character  in  a  novel.  It  is  all  so  strange  and  beautiful  to  me, 
and  yet  it  must  be  very  old?  " 

138 


The  Moon-Lit  Stair  139 

"  The  new  can  always  be  made  to  order,  but  only  age  can 
beautify  like  this.  These  saloons  were  done  over  during  the 
Renaissance,  and  my  poor  friend  Gastonet  bought  from  dealers 
and  private  families  old  furniture  and  draperies  of  that  period, 
so  under  his  able  hand  they  have  been  made  to  look  as  they  did 
originally." 

Fauvel  was  standing  in  front  of  an  ornate  fireplace,  in  which 
smouldered  a  heap  of  pine-cones.  It  was  the  middle  of  June, 
but  the  night  air  here  was  often  chilly,  the  ruddy  sparks  gave 
a  cheerful  aspect,  also  a  pleasant,  pungent  odor.  He  was 
glancing  lovingly  and  admiringly  around  the  room,  where  doz- 
ens of  wax  tapers  in  gilt  sconces  furnished  the  light,  casting  a 
mellow  glow  over  the  dim  and  time-worn  elegance  of  the  spa- 
cious apartment.  Margaret  also  glanced  around.  The  Bel- 
montes  were  nowhere  to  be  seen,  but  at  one  side  was  a  table 
covered  with  snowy  linen  and  expensive  glass  and  silverware, 
which  was  set  for  four;  that  at  least  was  reassuring.  Fauvel, 
the  Belmontes  and  herself  were  to  dine  first,  she  supposed,  be- 
fore the  arrival  of  their  guests.  She  wondered  what  sort  of 
people  he  could  collect  from  the  neighborhood,  which  had 
seemed  to  her  composed  only  of  shepherds'  huts  and  peasants' 
hovels,  but  then  she  had  slept  as  they  approached  the  castle 
and  for  all  she  knew  there  might  be  fine  villas  near  them. 

"  I  am  having  the  dinner  served  in  here  for  your  benefit, 
Mademoiselle,"  he  said.  "  You  Americans  like  fire  at  all  sea- 
sons, I  believe,  and  I  want  you  to  be  comfortable." 

"  How  kind  and  thoughtful  you  are,  Monsieur,  but  perhaps 
it  may  be  too  warm  for  the  Signora,"  she  replied,  thinking  it 
odd  that  Fauvel  should  consider  her  tastes  before  those  of  the 
wife  of  his  friend. 

"  The  Signora  is  of  your  nationality,"  he  answered. 

"Oh,"  she  exclaimed,  "I  am  glad  of  that!  Shall  I  meet 
her  soon?  " 

"  Soon.  But,  Mademoiselle,  I  think  you  need  something 
after  your  walk  through  these  long  corridors,  which  are  cold 


140  A  Cry  of  Youth 


after  dark,"  and  he  filled  two  small  glasses  and  handed  her 
one.  "  We  shall  drink  another  toast  when  the  Belmontes 
come,"  he  said.  "  This  is  to  you,  to  Mademoiselle  la  rayo- 
nette,  that  is  what  you  remind  me  of  —  a  moonbeam,  in  your 
filmy  white  with  its  silver  tracery." 

Margaret  took  the  offered  glass  and  drank  it  in  smiling  ac- 
knowledgment of  the  delicate  compliment.  Fauvel  had  merely 
tasted  his,  when  Clemente  entered,  making  a  slight  sign  that 
he  wished  to  speak  privately  with  his  master,  so  she  sat  down 
and  glanced  about  again.  There  were  two  objects  that  espe- 
cially attracted  her  attention.  One  was  a  large  mirror,  blurred 
and  cracked,  reaching  nearly  from  floor  to  ceiling.  The  other 
was  a  crimson  velvet  curtain  at  the  opposite  end  of  the  room. 
She  was  curious  as  to  what  was  behind  it. 

The  cordial  she  had  taken  had  a  peculiar  effect  upon  her;  it 
was  toning  and  invigorating,  and  yet  intensely  soothing.  A 
great  contentment  stole  over  her;  it  did  not  appear  at  all  un- 
natural for  her  to  be  sitting  here,  she  was  already  quite  at  home 
in  these  unusual  surroundings.  Her  thoughts  drifted  further 
and  further  into  the  past  —  "  the  dreadful  yet  beautiful  me- 
diaeval past,  when  life  was  so  strong  and  fierce,  and  passions 
blazed  so  suddenly  to  the  bad  and  to  the  good."  Could  it  be 
really  she,  up-to-date  Margaret  Randolph,  from  practical  com- 
mon-sense New  York,  gone  back,  back  into  the  realms  of  ro- 
mance and  knighthood? 

The  conversation  between  Fauvel  and  his  servant  still  con- 
tinued in  an  undertone.  Near  her  on  a  marble-topped  table 
with  curved  gilt  legs,  stood  a  crystal  bowl  filled  with  red  roses ; 
their  perfume  reached  her,  fragrant,  sweet  and  subtle.  They 
were  like  the  roses  that  Estori  loved  so  well,  and  with  the 
perfume  came  visions  of  him.  The  rich  crimson  mantling  his 
cheeks,  the  very  color  of  the  flowers  themselves,  his  freshness, 
his  sweetness,  his  beauty  that  rivaled  the  richest  rose  among 
them. 

She  did  not  notice  that  Clemente  had  left,  nor  that  Fauvel 


The  Moon-Lit  Stair  141 

was  standing  as  if  expecting  his  guests,  for  her  eyes  were  riveted 
upon  the  mirror  —  surely,  surely  it  was  a  mirror  —  yet  now 
the  massive  gilt  woodwork  framed  a  picture.  Oh,  had  the 
cordial  gone  to  her  head,  or  had  the  idea  of  a  young  knight  that 
Fauvel  had  suggested,  taken  shape  in  her  brain?  What  was 
this?  It  was  moving,  moving.  It  was  not  a  picture  —  the 
old  mirror  was  only  doing  its  duty  and  reflecting  a  reality! 
She  turned  her  head  quickly  toward  the  other  end  of  the  room, 
and  saw  Fauvel  watching  her.  Was  she  in  a  trance,  or  was 
she  dreaming? 

Standing  where  the  crimson  curtain  had  fallen  into  place 
behind  him  was  in  truth  a  knight  in  silk  doublet  and  hose,  with 
a  long  cloak  draped  over  his  shoulders,  young,  graceful  and 
handsome,  with  hair  as  black  as  the  raven's  wing  and  features 
as  perfect  as  those  of  a  Greek  god.  He  was  entirely  in  white, 
the  only  color  a  red  rose  against  the  silken  doublet.  He  stood 
at  the  top  of  three  marble  steps,  with  one  hand  still  holding  the 
folds  of  the  curtain  through  which  he  had  come,  silent,  immov- 
able, gazing  down  into  the  room. 

Margaret's  heart  beat  fast;  what  was  there  about  those  dusky 
curls  that  was  like  Estori's?  Ah,  because  —  because  his  image 
was  so  photographed  upon  her  mind  that  she  could  see  nothing 
but  him.  The  youth  was  looking  at  her  —  staring  at  her.  She 
rose  from  her  seat,  he  came  down  two  steps  and  hesitated,  al- 
most staggered,  then  straightened  himself  again  and  passed  a 
hand  over  his  eyes  as  if  to  clear  his  vision. 

Margaret  moved  slightly  forward,  her  whole  body  swaying 
like  a  reed,  her  hand  pressed  to  her  heart  to  stop  its  wild  beat- 
ing ;  then  there  was  a  flash  of  recognition,  a  cry  of  ecstatic  joy, 
and  forgetful  of  Fauvel,  forgetful  of  everything,  in  a  moment 
they  were  clasped  in  each  others'  arms. 

"  Margherita,  Margherita !  "  he  cried,  after  the  first  raptur- 
ous embrace,  "  have  you  dropped  from  heaven  ?  " 

"  And  you  —  and  you,"  she  murmured,  so  overcome  she 
could  scarcely  speak. 


142  A  Cry  of  Youth 

"  You  here  —  this  costume  —  oh,  I  cannot  understand ;  where 
am  I  ?  It  is  a  dream  —  a  dream." 

"  No,  no,  my  treasure,  it  is  not  a  dream ; "  he  drew  her 
towards  him  and  kissed  her;  "  this  is  Rocca  Serrata,  the  castle 
of  Fauvel.  Fauvel,"  he  cried,  "  Meurice,  where  are  you  ?  " 
He  looked  around ;  they  both  looked,  but  Fauvel  was  gone. 

"  I  do  not  understand,"  Margaret  said  again,  as  she  sank 
into  a  chair;  tears  rushed  to  her  eyes;  she  could  not  breathe; 
was  she  going  to  die  of  joy  ? 

"  Take  this,  car'issima"  he  said,  holding  to  her  lips  the  glass 
that  Fauvel  had  left.  "  You  have  had  a  shock,  and  I  —  I  un- 
derstand no  more  than  you." 

"  Then  you  did  not  know  I  was  coming?  " 

She  had  taken  a  sip  of  the  cordial,  and  handing  the  glass 
back  to  him,  "  you  finish  it,"  she  said,  and  he  drank  it  down. 

"  But  how  did  you  come  here,  and  in  these  clothes  ?  I  still 
think  I  am  dreaming." 

"  I  met  Fauvel  in  Florence,"  Estori  answered.  "  He  said  if 
I  would  come  here  for  a  week  and  be  his  model  he  would  give 
me  a  thousand  lire.  I  managed  it,  never  mind  how.  This 
costume,"  he  added,  glancing  half  ashamed,  half  contemptu- 
ously at  his  remarkable  attire,  "  is  one  Fauvel  wore  to  an  art- 
ists' fete  'ball  in  Paris  —  he  and  I  are  about  the  same  size.  He 
has  made  sketches  of  me  in  it,  and  insisted  upon  my  wearing  it 
to-night,  saying  a  friend  had  returned  with  him.  I  supposed 
it  was  another  artist  as  crazy  as  himself.  He  went  to  Perugia 
yesterday  to  meet  this  friend,  and  I  was  fearful  he  might  not 
get  back  in  time  for  me  to  reach  Genoa  promptly,  as  he  prom- 
ised I  should  when  I  consented  to  come  with  him,  for  unless 
things  are  carefully  managed  I  will  be  disgraced  forever  in  my 
community." 

He  paused,  gazed  at  Margaret,  looked  around  the  room,  then 
back  at  her.  "  But  I  begin  to  understand,"  he  continued ; 
"  Fauvel  has  brought  you  here.  That  is  all  I  can  think  of  now 
—  that  is  all  I  care  to  think  of." 


The  Moon-Lit  Stair  143 

At  that  moment  Clemente  reentered,  saying: 

"  The  Padrone's  salutations  to  the  Signer  and  Signora  Bel- 
monte,  and  he  begs  they  will  excuse  his  absence  at  dinner,  as  he 
is  called  suddenly  to  the  village." 

"  Belmonte!  "  exclaimed  Margaret. 

"  Hush!  "  said  Estori;  "  that  is  the  name  I  am  known  by, 
'  Leone  Belmonte.'  " 

"  The  Belmontes,"  she  said,  half  to  herself ;  "  I  was  to  meet 
them  here.  I  cannot  comprehend  anything  that  is  going  on, 
and  I  am  too  happy  to  think  or  to  care,"  for  again  the  feeling  of 
perfect  contentment  and  peace  had  stolen  over  her,  and  she  let 
Estori  lead  her  to  the  table  without  another  question. 

It  was  months  since  she  had  sat  down  to  an  attractive  and 
well-ordered  repast.  And  the  wine  —  how  delicious !  —  clear 
and  sparkling,  with  the  flavor  of  liquid  fruit.  When  the  des- 
sert was  brought  on  the  uncouth-looking  stable  boy  appeared  at 
one  of  the  doors  and  handed  Clemente  a  note,  which  he  in  turn 
handed  to  Estori.  It  contained  something  hard  and  round. 
He  broke  the  seal,  and  inside  was  the  ring  he  had  insisted  upon 
Fauvel's  keeping  since  it  so  much  interested  him,  the  same  he 
had  found  when  a  boy  embedded  in  a  crack  of  the  marble  floor- 
ing in  the  hidden  chamber  of  Caesar's  Palace  under  the  old 
convent  in  Rome.  Then  it  had  seemed  only  dull  metal,  but 
now  it  was  changed  into  living  gold,  fiery  and  bright,  and  the 
unbroken  hammered  circle  Fauvel  had  said  was  an  emblem  of 
unbroken  and  eternal  love. 
The  note  read: 

There  has  been  an  accident  in  the  village;  my  services  are  needed 
there.  I  will  not  come  home  to-night.  The  one  thousand  lire  I  owe 
you  shall  be  yours  to-morrow.  I  have  tried  to  arrange  everything 
for  the  comfort  and  convenience  of  my  guests.  I  return  you  this 
ancient  ring,  for  I  think  there  is  a  hand  near  you  that  the  small 
circlet  may  fit.  Give  this  toast  for  me  to  the  Signer  and  Signora 
Belmonte:  For  the  past  a  remembrance,  for  the  present  happiness, 
for  the  future  hope. 

Yours, 

MEURICE  ANTOINE  FAUVEL, 


144  A  Cry  of  Youth 

Estori  slipped  the  ring  back  quickly  into  the  note,  the  blood 
mounting  hotly  to  his  cheeks.  He  took  up  his  glass  and 
drained  it,  after  the  manner  of  a  man  who  needs  wine.  Clem- 
ente  immediately  refilled  it. 

"  What  is  it,"  asked  Margaret;  "  is  anything  wrong?  " 

"  Fauvel  sends  you  his  compliments,"  he  replied;  "he  has 
gone  to  the  village  about  three  miles  off,  something  has  hap- 
pened there  and  he  goes  to  relieve  suffering.  These  peasants 
who  live  on  the  mountain  know  his  skill  and  send  for  him  in 
their  trouble,  and  he  never  refuses  to  go." 

At  last  the  dinner  was  over  and  the  table  cleared.  Clemente 
had  brought  the  coffee  and  when  he  finally  departed,  Margaret 
begged  for  the  explanation :  "  You  met  Fauvel  in  Florence,  you 
said ;  now  tell  me  everything  from  that  time  on." 

"  Yes,"  he  began,  "  I  did;  I  and  my  companions  with  whom 
I  am  to  sail  were  making  a  pilgrimage  at  Assisi,  and  while 
there  my  relative,  Prince  Daniele  Estori,  joined  us,  to  pray  at 
the  shrine  of  St.  Francis,  who  was  the  patron  saint  of  his  dead 
father,  for  the  repose  of  his  soul.  Daniele  asked  permission  of 
my  Superior  to  have  me  spend  my  last  week  with  him,  on  his 
estate  at  Fiesole,  which  is  near  Florence,  you  know.  It  was  all 
arranged,  and  I  was  to  rejoin  my  companions  in  Genoa  at  the 
Franciscan  Convent  of  the  Visitation  where  those  of  my  Order 
who  are  to  leave  Italy  will  meet  the  day  after  to-morrow.  But 
we  went  first  to  Florence  where  Daniele  had  business,  and  I 
took  the  time  for  sightseeing  while  he  was  with  his  lawyers. 
By  appointment  at  the  Uffizi  Gallery,  I  met  Fauvel.  He  told 
me,  Margherita,  that  you  were  starving  in  Rome,  actually 
starving." 

"  It  is  true,"  she  said  very  quietly,  "  I  was." 

"  He  said  that  your  home  in  New  York  had  been  broken  up, 
that  you  were  disappointed  about  that  position  for  the  summer, 
that  you  had  no  money  and  nowhere  to  go.  You  may  imagine 
how  I  felt,  what  I  suffered  at  hearing  this,  I  —  who  was  pow- 
erless to  help  you  and  yet  would  give  my  life  for  you!  " 


The  Moon-Lit  Stair  145 

"  Dear  Leone,"  she  said,  raising  her  eyes  to  his  and  seeing  in 
them  all  the  truth  of  his  words,  "  I  believe  you  would." 

"  He  told  me  also  of  the  danger  that  threatened  you, 
carissima;  dangers  to  which  any  young  and  unprotected  girl  is 
exposed,  things  I  cannot  speak  to  you  about  —  they  are  too  aw- 
ful—  and  yet  I  know  they  are  true.  The  men  of  Rome  are 
bloodhounds  —  bloodhounds,  some  of  them,  and  even  Fauvel 
was  not  there  to  watch  over  you." 

Margaret  turned  her  face  away.  "  I  begged  him  to  see  if 
there  was  anything  we  could  do  to  help  you,  he  and  I  together, 
and  he  said  that  money  was  the  best  safeguard  for  a  woman. 
But  how  was  I  to  get  money  ?  Then  he  proposed  that  I  should 
come  here  with  him  for  a  week  and  pose  as  a  model  in  any  cos- 
tume he  might  choose ;  he  could  finish  the  pictures  from  memory, 
he  said,  and  would  give  me  a  thousand  lire  which  I  could  send 
to  you." 

"  Oh,"  she  gasped.  Her  face  was  still  averted  and  her 
hands  tightly  clasped. 

"  I  know  that  sometimes,"  he  continued,  "  women  in  want 
and  desperation  commit  sin  which  they  loathe,  and  I  said  to  my- 
self, '  if  one  of  us  must  sin,  let  it  be  me.'  " 

Margaret  rose  from  the  table,  and  going  to  the  other  side  of 
the  room  sat  down,  leaning  upon  an  arm  of  the  chair  and  cov- 
ered her  face  with  her  hands.  Estori  followed  her. 

"Do  not  despise  me,  Margherita,"  he  begged;  "I  did  not 
think  of  anything  but  you,  how  to  help  you,  how  to  save  you. 
Fauvel  kept  telling  me  horrible  things  that  might  happen,  until 
I  was  almost  frantic.  My  heart  was  breaking  for  love  of  you, 
and  my  brain  bursting  for  thinking  —  thinking  what  I  could 
do.  If  I  asked  my  cousin  Daniele  for  that  sum  he  would  wish 
to  know  for  what  purpose  I  wanted  it,  and  that  I  did  not  care 
to  tell.  There  seemed  no  way  but  this  —  oh,  do  not  turn  from 
me " 

She  raised  her  head  and  looked  at  him.  "  How  did  you  man- 
age it?  "  she  asked. 


146  A  Cry  of  Youth 

"  I  had  permission  to  visit  Prince  Estori,  you  know,  but  not 
Fauvel.  However,  fortune  favored  me.  No  one  knew  of  our 
meeting;  we  were  both  strangers  in  Florence  and  we  went  from 
the  Gallery  to  a  less  public  place,  where  we  talked  matters 
over  and  arranged  it,  Meurice  and  I.  I  left  Florence  with 
Daniele,  and  remained  at  his  villa  a  day  and  a  night,  then  I 
pretended  I  had  been  summoned  back  suddenly  and  secretly 
joined  Fauvel.  I  deceived  my  Superior  and  I  deceived  my 
cousin.  I  lied,  Margherita,  I  lied  to  them  both  for  your 
sake." 

Estori  dropped  on  his  knees  before  her,  his  beautiful,  plead- 
ing face  was  looking  up  into  hers.  "  Have  you  nothing  to  say 
to  me,  Margherita  nfiaf  " 

"  What  can  I  say,"  she  answered,  "  you  are  here  —  here,  and 
I  am  happy." 

"  Tesoro  mlo,"  he  exclaimed,  as  he  took  her  hands  and  kissed 
them. 

"  Ah,"  she  said  slowly  "  I  am  only  happy  because  I  am  in  a 
dream.  I  am  not  really  here,  neither  are  you.  If  I  were 
awake  I  should  say  you  had  done  very  wrong,  but  nothing 
seems  right  or  wrong  to-night.  I  feel  as  if  I  were  drifting  — 
drifting  on  a  calm  and  lovely  sea.  Drifting  —  I  don't  know 
where.  Nor  do  I  care  "  —  she  added,  disengaging  her  hands 
from  his  clasp,  and  throwing  up  her  arms  with  a  gesture  of 
abandonment. 

"  Do  you  care  to  have  me  drift  with  you,  Margherita  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  yes ;  let  us  go  on  together  as  long  as  the  dream 
lasts." 

"  It  is  no  dream,  carissima."  He  was  gazing  at  her  intently, 
at  her  round  white  arms,  and  the  soft  contour  of  her  neck  where 
the  rope  of  seed  pearls  rose  and  fell  with  every  breath.  He  had 
never  seen  her  in  evening  dress  before. 

And  she  was  looking  at  him,  at  the  perfect  features  she  loved. 

She  put  her  hand  on  his  head ;  the  tonsure  was  gone.  The 
thick  clustering  curls  that  had  always  been  rebellious  of  their 


The  Moon-Lit  Stair  147 

clipping  had  almost  concealed  it.  The  shorter  hair  where  the 
ring  had  been  shaved  was  a  sudden  reminder  of  how  she  had 
last  seen  him.  "  Your  habit,"  she  said,  "  what  have  you  done 
with  it?" 

"  I  changed  in  a  lonely  woods.  Fauvel  provided  me  with 
clothes,  and  I  packed  my  habit  in  a  valise  and  carried  it  away 
with  me  unnoticed ;  I  met  him  a  few  miles  distant  on  the  road. 
We  reached  the  castle  after  dark  and  I  kept  in  the  background 
for  a  few  days  until  my  hair  grew  out  somewhat." 

"  And  you  honestly  knew  nothing  of  Fauvel's  plan  for  bring- 
ing me  here?  " 

"  As  God  lives,  I  swear  it.  I  took  advantage  of  the  trust 
that  was  placed  in  me,  I  disobeyed,  I  deceived,  I  lied;  but  I 
knew  nothing  of  this.  I  came  here  simply  to  get  the  money  to 
save  you  from  want,  or  worse.  I  have  posed  for  Fauvel  for 
hours  and  hours,  dressed  in  all  kinds  of  stage  toggery,  as  a 
beggar,  a  saint,  a  knight,  so  that  yesterday  I  was  almost  re- 
lieved to  have  him  go.  During  his  absence  I  rested  and  amused 
myself  by  exploring  the  house.  The  air  here  makes  me  very 
drowsy,  and  this  afternoon  I  fell  sound  asleep  and  was  aroused 
by  Fauvel  coming  to  my  rooms.  I  did  not  even  know  he  had 
returned,  much  less  of  your  arrival.  I  have  given  in  to  all  he 
exacted,  all  his  caprices,  such  as  appearing  in  this  ridiculous 
costume  to-night.  He  said  his  reason  for  my  wearing  it  would 
soon  be  explained  and  that  I  would  understand  his  motives. 
But  I  have  done  it  all  for  you  —  for  you." 

"Nothing  is  explained,"  she  said;  "the  mystery  becomes 
deeper  and  deeper  to  me ;  "  then  in  her  turn  she  told  Estori  of 
Fauvel's  letter,  of  her  meeting  him  in  Perugia,  the  long  drive 
through  the  mountains  —  "  and  the  Belmontes,"  she  added,  com- 
pleting her  story,  "who  and  where  are  they?" 

"  I  am  the  Signor  Belmonte,"  he  said,  rising;  "but  I  know 
of  no  other  lady  in  the  castle  but  yourself." 

Margaret  rose  also.  "  A  dream,  a  dream,"  she  murmured. 
"  Soon  I  shall  awake,  so  why  wonder  about  anything?  " 


148  A  Cry  of  Youth 

Estori  had  not  understood  her  last  words,  as  she  had  spoken 
in  English. 

"  Come,"  he  said,  "  I  had  forgotten  that  Fauvel  asked  us  to 
drink  a  toast  for  him." 

The  sparkling  golden  wine  foamed  in  the  thin-stemmed  Vene- 
tian glasses  that  they  both  raised,  first  to  their  erratic  host  and 
then  to  themselves,  while  Estori  gave  the  toast  as  the  note  bade 
him,  "  For  the  past  a  remembrance,  for  the  present  happiness, 
for  the  future  hope." 

Margaret  had  never  before  experienced  such  a  dreamy  con- 
tent, a  feeling  of  peace  so  supreme  that  she  \vas  beyond  ques- 
tioning anything  she  saw  or  heard.  Wonderful  things  were 
happening  if  they  were  true,  but  she  doubted  the  evidence  of 
her  own  eyes.  She  had  parted  from  Estori  forever.  She  had 
torn  her  heart  out  and  left  it  in  the  dark  church  of  San  Marco, 
and  had  dragged  herself  home  and  crept  into  bed,  and  now  in 
some  fantasy  of  her  sleep  he  had  come  back  to  her  —  that 
was  all. 

They  stood  alone  in  the  picturesque  old  room,  the  youthful 
knight  and  the  dainty  little  lady,  clothed  alike  in  spotless  white 
like  a  bridal  pair. 

She  looked  at  him  again.  He  was  standing  erect  as  a  young 
palm  with  his  head  held  proudly,  watching  the  wine  bubble  and 
sparkle  in  his  glass.  His  long  white  cloak  floated  from  his 
shoulders  in  graceful  folds  and  the  silken  hose  showed  to  the 
best  advantage  the  perfect  symmetry  of  his  lithe,  supple  limbs. 
He  had  been  without  color  the  first  part  of  the  evening,  but 
now  the  rich  crimson  of  his  cheeks  rivaled  the  rose  on  his  breast. 
He  was  smiling  at  her  now,  that  exquisite  smile  of  his,  which 
Fauvel  had  longed  to  catch  upon  his  canvas,  and  she  was  smil- 
ing back  at  him. 

To  him  she  was  like  a  white  flower,  so  delicate  and  fragile 
that  if  he  touched  he  might  crush  it.  He  glanced  at  the  mass 
of  dark  hair  on  her  small  head  and  wondered  how  she  would 
look  if  it  were  falling  over  her  pretty  shoulders,  almost  as  white 


The  Moon-Lit  Stair  149 

as  the  soft,  silvery  stuff  that  clothed  her.  He  looked  down  at 
the  satin  slippers,  spangled  in  silver,  that  encased  her  little 
feet;  from  head  to  foot  she  was  dainty  and  beautiful  and  white, 
like  a  hyacinth  bell,  he  thought,  and  a  mad  impulse  seized  him 
to  crush  the  flower  in  a  wild  embrace.  He  also  was  beginning 
to  feel  as  if  under  the  influence  of  a  charm  that  any  sudden 
action  might  dispel.  He  did  not  seem  to  be  himself,  another 
personality  had  taken  possession  of  him. 

Was  he  drunk  with  the  wine,  or  was  he  drunk  with  the 
beauty  of  Margherita? 

She  was  standing  still  as  a  statue.  She  had  lowered  her 
eyes  and  fixed  them  upon  the  disc  of  her  wine  glass. 

Silence  reigned  in  the  old  castle.  Clemente  had  retired  to 
his  quarters  and  they  were  alone.  The  room  was  warm  and 
the  air  heavy  with  the  perfume  of  roses.  The  stillness  was 
almost  oppressive,  intense,  as  though  Night  itself  were  in  love, 
and  each  silent  moment  a  pulse  of  its  heart.  They  had  no 
idea  of  the  hour.  Many  of  the  wax  tapers  had  died  out  in 
their  sconces  and  an  antique  lamp  on  a  tall  stand  at  the  foot 
of  the  curtained  archway  was  burning  low. 

"  Margherita,"  Leone  said  very  gently.  She  looked  up, 
meeting  his  eyes.  All  at  once  a  flame  leapt  into  life.  With 
a  quick  movement  he  took  the  glass  from  her  hand  and  threw 
his  arm  round  her. 

"  Drink  from  my  glass,"  he  said  imperiously,  "  and  tell  me 
that  thou  lovest  me." 

She  obeyed,  then  pushing  it  away,  "  You  know  I  love  you, 
you  know  it."  "  Speak  as  I  speak,"  he  said  again,  "  in  the 
language  of  love.  The  other  way  is  cold.  It  may  not  be  so 
in  English,  but  with  us  it  is  different  —  to  the  beloved  thee 
and  thou  always." 

"  I  love  thee,  Leone." 

He  placed  the  glass  upon  the  table  and  took  her  in  his  arms. 
"  And  I  adore  thee,  Margherita,  thou  art  more  beautiful  to- 
night than  I  have  ever  seen  thee." 


150  A  Cry  of  Youth 

"  it  is  thou  who  art  beautiful,  not  I,"  she  answered  slowly, 
for  speaking  in  the  second  person  singular  was  new  to  her. 
"  There  is  no  other  man  as  handsome  as  thou  art  in  the  whole 
world !  How  I  wish  I  were  an  artist  like  Fauvel,  I  too  would 
paint  thee,  but  no  one  can  paint  thine  eyes  —  they  are  melted 
stars."  She  could  say  no  more,  for  his  lips  were  upon  hers, 
her  arms  stole  round  his  neck  and  all  speech  was  lost  in  the 
ecstasy  of  that  kiss. 

"  Margherita,"  he  whispered  finally,  "  the  first  time  I  met 
thee  something  happened.  Dost  thou  remember  how  we  looked 
once  into  each  other's  eyes,  while  the  bleak  December  wind 
sighed  through  the  leafless  trees?" 

"  Yes,"  she  said  faintly,  "  I  remember." 

"  Instantly  we  started  a  fire  together,  which  was  being  fanned 
all  the  way  back  to  town,  and  when  we  went  into  the  church 
of  the  Gesu  and  I  knelt  beside  thee  it  blazed  up  —  it  consumed 
me,  and  it  has  been  consuming  me  ever  since.  I  tried  to  ex- 
tinguish it  over  and  over  again.  Grand  Dio!  how  I  have  tried! 
And  that  last  day  when  we  parted  in  Rome  I  believed  I  had 
succeeded  in  stifling  it.  I  deceived  myself;  often  fire  that 
seems  extinct  sleeps  under  its  ashes  and  it  has  burst  forth  again, 
fiercer  and  wilder,  more  uncontrollable  than  ever  before,  and 
the  flames  are  now  too  high  and  fierce  and  hot  for  me  to  battle 
with  them;  thou  art  the  fire,  Margherita,  dost  thou  hear  me, 
dost  thou  understand  ?  I  love  thee,  I  am  mad  for  thee  —  I 
cannot  live  another  day  without  thee ;  I  — " 

"Oh,  hush,  hush!"  she  cried;  "do  not  spoil  the  dream;  I 
am  so  happy,  and  soon  it  will  all  disappear." 

"  I  told  thee  before,  my  treasure,  this  is  not  a  dream." 

"  Ah,"  she  said,  "  I  know  better."  She  was  still  resting  on 
his  arm  looking  up  into  his  face  as  she  spoke.  "  Not  long  ago  I 
had  a  vision  like  this  —  like  this.  I  found  myself  in  ancient 
halls,  just  as  I  find  here,  in  this  place,  though  I  never  entered 
its  doors  until  to-day.  I  saw  tall  trees  and  towering  mountains, 
and  thou  earnest  to  me  all  in  white,  as  I  see  thee  now,  and 


The  Moon-Lit  Stair  151 

every  worry,  every  care  had  gone,  and  all  was  love  and  happi- 
ness and  peace.  But  the  vision  had  scarcely  come  before  it  was 
gone  and  I  saw  only  the  forlorn  courtyard  beneath  my  window, 
and  the  rain  pouring  down  and  my  expenses  going  on,  with  no 
money  to  meet  them,  and  —  oh,  let  us  not  break  the  dream,  only 
too  soon  it  will  pass  like  the  other.  Life  is  so  hard  —  and  I 
am  so  lonely !  "  She  laid  her  head  on  his  shoulder  to  hide  the 
tears  that  started  to  her  eyes. 

"  I  tell  thee,  carissima,  it  is  not  a  dream.  I  will  never  leave 
thee  again.  Thou  shalt  never  more  have  things  to  pain  or 
worry  thee.  I  will  care  for  thee  always.  See,"  he  said,  "  like 
this  will  I  make  for  thee  life's  pathway."  He  took  the  roses 
from  the  crystal  bowl  that  stood  near  him  and  with  a  superb 
gesture  tossed  the  flowers  high  over  their  heads  and  let  them 
fall  to  the  floor  in  a  shower  of  crimson  sweetness. 

The  last  waxen  taper  burned  down  to  its  socket.  The  great 
room  was  almost  dark,  save  for  the  dim  light  from  the  expiring 
lamp,  and  the  stillness  of  the  castle  seemed  unearthly. 

A  sense  of  great  weariness  stole  over  Margaret.  The  almost 
sleepless  night,  the  long  drive,  the  excitement  of  the  evening, 
were  telling  upon  her,  and  yet  the  peace,  the  quietude,  the  sight 
of  Estori  near  her,  were  all  so  blissfully  strange  that  she  could 
not  make  up  her  mind  that  it  was  real. 

"  I  think,"  she  said,  as  she  picked  up  a  rose  that  had  caught 
in  the  lace  of  her  gown,  "  that  if  this  is  not  a  dream,  then  —  we 
are  in  the  next  world  together.  We  are  dead." 

Estori  laughed.  It  sounded  very  human,  his  own  sweet  mu- 
sical laugh  that  she  knew  so  well.  "  No  amore,  we  live." 
Gently  he  led  her  to  the  end  of  the  room  where  the  velvet  cur- 
tains hung  in  the  archway.  As  they  reached  the  marble  steps 
the  lamp  suddenly  flared  up  and  went  out,  leaving  them  in 
darkness. 

"  Oh,"  cried  Margaret,  "  the  lamp,  it  is  out,  what  shall  we 
do,  how  find  our  way  without  a  light  ?  " 

Leone  ran  up  the  steps  and  pushed  back  the  curtain.     "  We 


152  A  Cry  of  Youth 

need  no  light  but  God's  lamp,  the  moon,"  he  said,  pointing 
upward.  From  a  window  above  a  flood  of  moonlight  was 
pouring  down  a  tower  stair.  "  Come,  Margherita,  thou  art 
very  weary;  I  will  show  thee  where  thou  canst  rest." 

He  stood  at  the  top  of  the  steps,  holding  out  his  hand  to  her, 
but  she  hesitated.  He  seemed  more  unreal  than  ever,  framed 
in  the  archway,  clad  in  white  and  bathed  in  silvery  sheen. 
"  Come,"  he  said  again. 

A  few  sweet,  low  notes  broke  the  hush  without.  She 
started  back.  "  What  is  that  ?  "  she  gasped. 

"  It  is  the  nightingale  calling  to  her  mate.     Come !  " 

Slowly  she  mounted  the  steps  and  took  his  outstretched  hand. 
He  turned  to  lead  her  up  the  stairway,  but  once  more  she 
lingered.  "  I  am  afraid,"  she  whispered. 

"  Dost  thou  fear  me?  "  he  asked  in  wounded  tones. 

"  No,  no,"  she  answered,  putting  her  other  hand  on  his 
shoulder  and  looking  into  his  eyes  with  all  trust  and  confidence, 
"  I  love  thee,  Leone,  I  love  thee." 

"  A more  mio,  what  dost  thou  fear?  " 

"  The  awaking,"  she  faltered ;  "  thou  wilt  be  gone,  and  I 
shall  find  myself  alone." 

He  clasped  her  to  his  heart  in  a  passionate  embrace.  "  Thou 
shalt  wake  in  my  arms." 

The  glory  of  the  moon  streamed  down  upon  them  and  the 
air  thrilled  with  the  love-song  of  the  nightingale  —  amorous, 

sweet  and  low. 

******* 

In  the  early  morning  a  horseman  was  riding  over  the  old 
road  where  the  Roman  soldiers  once  came  clanking.  The  sun 
had  not  risen  high  in  the  heavens,  the  green  earth  was  yet  fresh, 
and  spider-webs  glistened  in  the  dew  like  bits  of  gossamer  upon 
the  grass.  The  rider  was  leaving  behind  him  a  poor,  wretched 
little  village  that  cowered  below  a  great  rock,  where  high  above 
it  a  half-ruined  fortress  still  proudly  reared  its  war-scarred 
towers  above  the  crumbling  walls.  The  rider  was  Fauvel  on 


The  Moon-Lit  Stair  153 

his  splendid  mare,  "  Fiora,"  and  he  was  experiencing  the  novel 
sensation  of  an  evil  conscience. 

Fauvel  was  not  a  bad  man.  He  lived  and  enjoyed  his  life 
according  to  his  beliefs  and  theories,  going  out  of  his  way  to  do 
many  kind  actions,  and  it  had  been  a  long  time  since  conscience 
had  troubled  him.  But  now,  as  he  turned  his  horse  off  the 
smooth  highway  into  a  steep  rough  path,  and  was  approaching 
his  dwelling,  he  realized  with  a  shock  the  thing  he  had  done! 
He  had  tried  from  his  first  acquaintance  with  Estori  to  make 
him  discontented,  had  even  urged  him  at  times  to  cast  aside  his 
habit.  He  was  fond  of  the  boy  and  really  wished  to  see  him 
happy,  but  his  friendship  had  never  been  disinterested;  he  had 
coveted  his  beauty  as  the  perfect  model  that  might  make  his 
name  famous.  He  had  sacrificed  Estori  to  himself  and  he  had 
sacrificed  Margherita  to  Estori.  Little,  helpless,  homeless 
Margherita!  He  had  thrown  her  to  a  young  panther  uncaged 
for  the  first  time. 

Truly  generous  he  had  been,  truly  magnanimous,  he  told 
himself  in  the  sarcasm  of  his  thoughts.  Through  working  on 
his  love  and  sympathies  he  had  led  Estori  into  lying  and  deceit, 
in  order  to  gain  a  sum  of  money  for  the  American  girl,  whom 
he,  Fauvel,  might  have  helped  to  help  herself  had  he  cared  to 
do  so,  without  compromising  either  of  them.  He  had  only 
consulted  his  own  selfish  pleasure  and  purposes. 

He  had  seen  the  lovers  meet,  and  they  had  made  a  beautiful 
picture  which  pleased  his  senses,  and  he  preferred  to  think  of 
them  happy  together  rather  than  pining  in  separation.  He 
knew  that  he  could  keep  Estori  only  for  the  few  days'  leave  he 
had  been  granted  by  his  Superior,  therefore  he  had  used  Mar- 
gherita as  a  bait  to  tempt  him  further.  He  had  not  weighed 
the  enormity  of  what  he  had  done.  He  had  interfered  with 
the  working  of  an  old  and  great  Order  of  the  Church.  He 
had  tried  to  destroy  the  simple  faith  of  a  youth  who  had  pledged 
his  life  to  that  Order,  and  had  wrenched  him  from  it  by 
wringing  his  heart,  and  the  girl  he  had  decoyed  by  trickery. 


154  A  Cry  of  Youth 

He  was  double  their  age.  He  had  been  guilty  of  leading  the 
young  astray,  he  was  a  villain!  Yes,  let  him  call  a  spade  a 
spade.  Fauvel  was  always  just,  and  he  was  not  sparing  him- 
self. It  had  all  amused  and  interested  him,  but  he  had  been 
playing  with  souls. 

For  many  years  Fauvel  had  considered  himself  an  unbeliever, 
but  there  was  a  text  in  the  Latin  Vulgate  with  a  horrible  curse 
in  it  that  disturbed  him  now.  "  But  he  that  shall  scandalize 
one  of  these  little  ones  that  believes  in  Me,  it  were  better  for 
him  that  a  millstone  should  be  hanged  about  his  neck  and  that 
he  should  be  drowned  in  the  depths  of  the  sea."  He  gave  the 
mare  a  sharp  sting  of  the  whip  for  he  wished  to  reach  the  castle 
quickly.  There  in  the  eastern  wing,  called  the  "  Morningside," 
were  his  pretty  prisoners;  it  had  hidden  many  a  secret  in  its 
day,  it  would  hide  theirs. 

"  I  will  make  it  up  to  them,"  he  said;  "  they  shall  never  suf- 
fer for  this,  neither  of  them.  Estori  shall  be  on  his  way  to 
Genoa  in  a  few  hours,  or  remain  and  be  my  heir  and  I  will  care 
for  Margherita  as  a  father." 

He  entered  the  grounds  by  a  gate  in  the  wall  that  was  near 
the  stables,  and,  leaving  the  mare  in  Beppo's  care,  hastened 
indoors  to  his  own  apartments  and  rang  loudly  for  Clemente. 
He  scribbled  a  quick  note  to  Estori,  saying  that  if  he  still  wished 
to  sail  on  Saturday  with  the  Franciscan  missionaries,  horses 
would  be  ready  to  take  him  to  the  railway  at  Fossato,  where  he 
could  catch  the  noon  train  and  make  connections  for  Genoa; 
that  he  would  provide  for  Margherita,  and  he  could  go  without 
fears  for  her  future.  On  the  other  hand,  if  he  no  longer  cared 
to  join  his  companions  he  was  to  know  that  Rocca  Serrata  was 
his  home  and  hers  as  long  as  they  cared  to  remain.  In  it  he 
enclosed  a  thousand  lire. 

"  Take  this  note  to  Signor  Belmonte,"  he  said,  as  Clemente 
appeared,  "  and  bring  me  an  answer;  "  then  he  fixed  himself  a 
"  drip  absinthe  "  and  sat  down  with  it  to  rest. 

He  was  not  surprised  at  the  reply  he  received : 


The  Moon-Lit  Stair  155 

Dear  and  wonderful  friend: 

I   desire  only  from  henceforth  to  be  with   Margherita.     We  would 
both  rather  die  at  once  than  be  separated  again. 
I  am  eternally  yours, 

LEONE  BELMONTE. 

And  the  thousand  lire  were  returned. 

Fauvel  smiled.  " L 'amour"  he  murmured,  "  I1  amour  tu  as 
conquis"  Then,  addressing  Clemente,  he  bade  him  bring  his 
breakfast  and  "  make  the  coffee  strong,"  he  said,  "  strong,  and 
do  not  let  any  one  disturb  me  until  luncheon,  for  I  have  had 
no  sleep." 

When  the  servant  was  gone  he  rose  and  opening  a  secret 
drawer  in  his  desk,  slipped  the  note  and  the  money  inside.  The 
latter  he  should  insist  upon  the  boy's  accepting.  He  rejoiced 
at  their  decision ;  it  took  a  load  off  his  mind,  and  yet  these  words 
still  haunted  him:  "it  were  better  for  him,  that  a  millstone 
should  be  hanged  about  his  neck,  and  that  he  were  drowned  in 
the  depths  of  the  sea" 

"  I  will  make  it  up  to  them,"  he  swore,  "  I  will  make  it  up 
to  them,  so  help  me  God." 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE  HIDING  PLACE 

"  Why  should  I  keep  from  love's  embrace 

Because  of  shame? 
Why  turn  aside  my  heated  face? 

Am  I  to  blame 

That  all  my  life  within  me  cries 
For  love,  and  lips  that  kiss  their  sighs 
Till  heart  unites  with  heart  —  and  dies  — 

Am  I  to  blame?  " 

Margaret  sat  on  the  terrace  with  a  book  in  her  hand.  All 
the  sweet  perfume  of  midsummer  was  in  the  air,  an  orange- 
winged  oriole  was  singing  from  a  grove  of  cypress  spires  close 
by  and  over  her  head  the  thrushes  were  answering  him  in  a 
high  and  joyous  chorus. 

Behind  her  stood  the  grim  castle,  darkened  with  the  sun  and 
rain  of  centuries.  A  portion  of  it  had  been  altered  by  a  former 
owner,  and  at  this  side  assumed  more  the  appearance  of  a  great 
villa,  having  a  two-storied  loggia,  a  terrace  and  a  quaint  old 
sloping  garden  where  pink  and  white  oleander  trees,  that  bloom 
late  in  this  altitude,  were  now  in  full  blossom.  Stiff  cacti 
marked  the  corners  of  the  paths,  and  the  low  boxwood  hedge 
tried  to  keep  the  flowers  and  shrubs  from  running  wild.  An 
embankment  covered  with  myrtle  and  iris  concealed  the  course 
of  a  spring  that  emptied  into  an  ancient  marble  sarcophagus  and 
overflowed  into  a  fountain. 

All  around  as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach  were  range  after 
range  of  mountains  rising  one  behind  the  other  (like  waves  of 
a  rolling  sea) ,  that  broke  from  somber  depths  to  towering  heights 
of  amethyst  haze  to  become  lost  in  the  sky. 

Margaret  held  the  book  but  she  was  not  reading;  her  own 
life  at  present  was  more  interesting  and  beautiful  than  anything 
she  could  find  between  its  covers.  She  let  it  drop  in  her  lap 

156 


The  Hiding  Place  157 

and  leaned  back  in  dreamy  languor  to  enjoy  the  magnificence 
of  the  landscape  and  to  breathe  in  the  scent  of  iris  and  cycla- 
men that  was  wafted  to  her  on  the  soft  breeze.  Upon  the 
third  finger  of  her  left  hand  she  wore  a  ring  of  hammered  gold. 
It  looked  bright  and  new,  but  in  reality  was  two  thousand  years 
old. 

She  had  heard  that  her  mother  was  improving,  had  written 
home  that  her  own  plans  had  all  been  changed ;  she  had  found 
a  far  better  and  delightful  position  as  companion  to  a  Signora 
Belmonte,  and  was  spending  the  summer  in  a  castle  in  the 
Apennines. 

In  this  mental  security  and  bodily  ease  she  had  given  herself 
up  to  the  trancelike  enjoyment  of  the  present ;  let  the  future  take 
care  of  itself,  this  was  the  heydey  of  youth,  and  she  was  a  wor- 
shipper at  Love's  altar.  She  heard  a  glad  shout,  and  looked  up 
to  see  a  young  man  breaking  through  the  tall  hedge  that  in- 
closed the  gardens  below.  He  wore  a  dark  green  hunting  suit 
and  high  russet  boots.  The  glow  of  health  was  in  his  face  and 
the  light  of  happiness  in  his  eyes,  as  he  waved  to  her,  calling 
her  by  name.  The  book  fell  upon  the  grass,  and  she  ran  to 
meet  him. 

He  took  her  in  his  arms  and  held  her  in  a  close  and  long 
embrace.  "  Have  you  missed  me,  diletto  mio?  "  *  he  asked,  as 
they  sat  on  the  marble  seat  together.  "  Do  you  know,  it  is  the 
first  time  we  have  been  parted  for  more  than  an  hour?  " 

They  were  supremely  happy.  Their  lives  were  simple  and 
natural,  almost  poetical  and  apparently  without  scruple.  So 
far  "  the  way  of  the  transgressor  "  had  not  been  "hard." 

They  sat  in  the  old  garden  in  the  cool  of  the  summer  after- 
noon, the  soothing  plash  of  the  fountain  behind  them  and  the 
pink  and  white  petals  of  an  oleander  tree  falling  gently  upon 
them.  Leone's  arm  was  thrown  lightly  around  his  love  and 
her  head  rested  on  his  shoulder,  and  together  they  gazed  over 
the  vast  stretch  of  mountains  where,  miles  away  to  the  south- 

*  My  delight. 


158  A  Cry  of  Youth 

west,  lay  the  Eternal  City  —  Rome  —  where  they  had  both 
known  so  much  misery. 

"  How  good  God  is,  "  he  said  at  length,  "  to  have  made  the 
earth  so  beautiful !  I  think  the  Garden  of  Eden  could  not  have 
been  any  fairer  than  this." 

"  Yes,"  said  Margaret  musingly,  "  and  here  there  is  no  ser- 
pent —  no  danger." 

"  There  is  the  bottomless  well,"  he  said. 

"What  is  that,"  she  asked;  "where  is  it  —  not  here  in  the 
garden?  " 

"  No,  it  is  over  there,"  and  he  pointed  in  the  direction  of  the 
fallen  tower.  "  It  is  a  dangerous  place;  Fauvel  has  warned 
me;  it  is  a  natural  reservoir  so  deep  no  one  has  ever  been  able 
to  sound  the  bottom." 

"  Is  that  where  you  have  put  your  habit,"  she  whispered ; 
"  have  you  thrown  it  down  the  well?  " 

"  No,"  he  answered  soberly,  "  but  I  have  hidden  it  safely." 

"  Show  me  where?  " 

"  Come,"  he  said. 

Hand  in  hand  they  left  the  restful  shades  of  the  garden, 
mounted  the  steps  of  the  terrace  to  a  door  that  opened  upon  it, 
and  passed  under  the  portal  of  the  place  that  had  so  strangely 
become  their  home. 

When  Rocca  Serrata  was  a  princely  dwelling,  as  well  as  a 
mighty  fortress  during  intervals  of  peace,  its  lords  had  bidden 
the  artists  of  Florence  and  Perugia  to  enrich  and  beautify  it. 
Now  it  was  almost  dismantled,  stripped  of  all  its  paintings  and 
many  of  its  tapestries,  its  frescoes  dim,  and  its  marbles  stained 
and  broken ;  but  with  it  all  there  remained  a  stately  beauty  that 
seemed  to  gain  rather  than  lose  by  the  touch  of  Time. 

After  going  up  a  broad  stair  and  crossing  the  covered  gallery 
of  a  small  inner  court  which  joined  the  main  building  to  its 
northern  flank,  Leone  stopped  before  an  imposing  door;  he 
pushed  it  with  his  foot  and  it  swung  in,  leading  down  several 
steps  into  a  sort  of  ante-room  which  looked  as  if  it  might  be 


The  Hiding  Place  159 

the  entrance  to  other  apartments.  It  was  empty  with  the  ex- 
ception of  a  long  wooden  chest,  rudely  carved,  and  beside  it,  as 
if  guarding  its  hidden  treasures,  stood  a  suit  of  ancient  armor. 
Opposite  the  entrance  hung  a  large  panel  of  ragged  tapestry  in 
which  horsemen  with  lances  and  spears  were  barely  discernible. 

"  It  is  here,"  Leone  said. 

"Here?     Where?" 

"  In  this,"  he  replied,  touching  the  armor. 

"  Inside  of  that?  "  she  asked;  "  when  did  you  put  it  there?  " 

"  The  day  after  you  came.  Fauvel  told  me  to  hide  it. 
'  There  are  plenty  of  deserted  rooms  and  safe  hiding  places,  go 
and  find  one,'  he  said,  and  I  found  this;  I  stuffed  the  habit  inside 
this  old  fellow.  No  one  would  ever  suspect  it  was  there. 
Don't  you  think  it  a  fine  place,  Margherita  ?  " 

"  No,"  she  said  critically,  "  I  do  not.  Fauvel  says  he  often 
allows  people  to  come  here  —  writers,  artists,  antiquarians  — 
and  they  go  through  the  castle  and  poke  into  everything,  and 
any  one  interested  in  old  armor  would  take  this  apart  in  no 
time,  and  if  they  should  find  a  monk's  habit  inside,  it  would 
look  exactly  as  if  it  were  purposely  hidden,  quickly  and  se- 
cretly, don't  you  see?  Let  us  put  it  in  this  chest,  and  then  if 
it  should  be  found  nothing  much  would  be  thought  of  it;  it 
might  have  lain  there  for  a  hundred  years,  who  could  tell;  your 
habits  do  not  change  their  style,  do  they?  " 

"  No,"  he  said,  "  they  have  remained  the  same  since  the  day 
of  St.  Francis  in  the  I3th  century." 

"  Very  well,  then,  if  ever  discovered,  one  would  naturally 
suppose  it  belonged  to  some  monk  who  once  lived  here.  Don't 
you  think  so?  Come,  let  us  try  to  open  the  chest;  see,  the  key. 
is  in  it." 

He  knelt,  and  after  a  moment's  tugging  at  the  lock,  it  yielded 
and  they  lifted  the  lid  together.  "  Now,"  said  Margaret, 
"  give  it  to  me."  He  began  to  remove  the  habit  from  the  dif- 
ferent parts  of  the  armor  where  he  had  hastily  thrust  it.  The 
brown  cloth  was  streaked  with  rust  and  dust,  which  she  wiped 


160  A  Cry  of  Youth 

off  and  neatly  folding  it,  piece  by  piece,  laid  it  carefully  in  the 
chest  —  the  robe,  the  cape,  the  hood,  the  sandals,  the  coarse 
socks,  and  then  the  knotted  white  cords  and  the  long  Rosary, 
he  standing  by  and  watching  her. 

"  The  door,"  she  said  cautiously;  "  you  had  better  stay  there 
and  keep  guard." 

"  No  one  ever  comes  here;  this  is  the  north  wing  that  ends 
in  the  ruined  tower.  It's  considered  unsafe,  and  has  a  bad 
name  besides.  They  tell  tales  in  the  village  about  it,  Fauvel 
says,  and  the  servants  are  afraid  —  that's  why  I  chose  it.  Down 
below  is  the  old  well  I  spoke  of.  It  might  have  been  better  to 
have  thrown  it  in  the  well,  after  all ;  our  secret  would  have  been 
safer." 

"  You  could  never  get  it  again,"  she  said. 

She  paused  in  her  work,  holding  the  small  black  cap  in  her 
hand,  the  last  article  that  completed  the  monk's  dress  and  which 
she  was  just  about  to  lay  away  with  the  rest.  "  You  might 
want  to  put  it  on  again  some  day." 

"  Never,  never,  Margherita.  Why  do  you  say  such 
things?" 

"  You  might  cease  to  love  me." 

"  Ah,  you  do  not  understand  my  love  for  you ;  it  is  deathless," 
he  declared  vehemently.  "  All  I  fear  is  that  you  might  grow 
weary  of  me,  and  then,  even  then,  I  would  have  no  use  for  it, 
for  I  would  throw  myself  into  the  well  if  that  day  should 
come." 

"  That  day  will  never  come,  Leone  dearest ;  never,  never. 
Let  us  shut  it  up  quickly;  it  is  safe  here,  and  we  will  forget  it." 

This  had  not  been  a  pleasant  quarter  of  an  hour  for  Mar- 
garet. The  same  troublesome  voice  that  used  to  worry  her  in 
Rome  was  making  itself  heard  again,  and  the  youth  at  her  side 
in  his  manly  beauty  had  such  a  short  time  since  been  that  sweet- 
faced  young  monk,  and  she  —  she  was  the  cause  of  his  casting 
off  this  habit  that  they  were  now  hurrying  to  conceal  like  a 
murdered  corpse.  "  Close  it  quick  and  let  us  go,"  she  said. 


The  Hiding  Place  161 

He  shut  down  the  lid,  turned  the  key  in  the  lock  and  took 
her  in  his  arms. 

"  How  cold  you  are,  amore"  he  said;  "why,  you  are  trem- 
bling! " 

"  I  am  nervous,"  she  answered;  "  let  us  go." 

"  I  should  not  have  brought  you  here  to  this  lonely,  dark 
room,"  he  said  tenderly,  as  he  led  her  from  it,  "  but  there  is 
nothing  to  be  afraid  of,  carissima,  it  is  only  the  foolish  talk  of 
peasants  —  telling  tales  of  this  part  of  the  castle." 

"  Oh,  it  is  not  ghosts,  or  silly  stories  that  I  fear." 

"What  then?" 

"  God,"  she  whispered;  "  we  cannot  hide  it  from  Him." 

"  No,  no,  Margherita,"  he  said  confidently.  "  God  is  not 
angry  with  us.  He  is  a  God  of  Love,  not  a  God  of  Vengeance, 
or  of  Fear.  That  is  what  Fauvel  believes,  and  he  says  the 
keeping,  not  the  breaking,  of  such  vows  is  the  sin,  and  I  believe 
it  now  also.  God  is  our  loving  Father,  and  He  wishes  His 
children  to  be  happy,  and  we  are  happy  —  is  it  not  so?  Have 
no  fear,  Margherita  mia,  we  will  go  back  to  the  garden;  but 
first  I  must  put  away  this  key." 

Retracing  their  steps  through  the  tortuous  windings  of  the 
great  house,  they  turned  at  length  into  a  light  and  airy  corridor 
where  the  frescoes  of  the  Zodiac  told  her  that  it  led  to  their 
own  quarters,  which  they  soon  reached.  Leone,  for  the  name 
Estori  was  never  spoken  now,  passed  into  his  bed  chamber  and 
hid  the  key  of  the  chest  behind  the  frame  of  a  picture. 

These  rooms,  with  their  lofty  ceilings  and  great  gilt  cor- 
nices, their  four-post  baldacchino  *  beds,  and  the  silk  rotting 
upon  the  panels  of  the  walls,  in  former  times  were  known  as 
the  state  apartments.  Now  they  were  occupied  by  the  Bel- 
montes,  and  it  was  odd  to  see  the  evidences  of  twentieth-cen- 
tury wearing  apparel  and  toilet  articles,  amidst  these  by-gone 
splendors. 

While  Leone  was  concealing  the  key  Margaret  stood  before 

*  Canopy. 


162  A  Cry  of  Youth 

the  long  mirror  in  her  room,  combed  back  a  few  stray  locks,  and 
gave  a  smoothing  touch  to  her  pretty,  girlish  toilet.  Then 
they  descended  the  stair  together,  merrily,  hand  in  hand,  passed 
from  the  dark  old  fortress  back  into  the  summer  air,  with  the 
birds  and  flowers  and  sunshine. 

Clemente  had  brought  the  tea-tray  out  into  the  loggia,  where 
Fauvel  sat  waiting  for  Margaret  to  preside.  He  had  a  news- 
paper in  his  hand  which  he  folded  and  slipped  behind  his  chair. 
"  I  had  quite  a  chat  with  old  Santoni,  the  postmaster,  while  I 
was  waiting  for  the  mail  to  come  along,"  he  said. 

"Was  there  any  mail  for  me,  Fauvel?"  Margaret 
asked. 

"  Nothing  for  any  of  us;  only  my  newspapers  from  Perugia," 
he  replied,  "  and  in  one  of  them  there  is  an  article  copied  from 
the  Giornale  d'ltalia  in  Rome  which  is  of  interest  to  us  all, 
especially  so  to  the  Belmontes." 

Fauvel  took  up  the  paper  again,  found  the  article,  and  handed 
it  to  Leone: 

The  Police  authorities  have  about  come  to  the  conclusion  that  the 
young  Fra  Felice  Estori  of  the  Order  of  Minor  Franciscans,  who  has 
been  missing  for  four  weeks,  has  met  with  foul  play.  The  police  of 
Florence  and  the  Carabinieri  in  their  patrol  of  that  part  of  the  country 
where  he  was  last  seen,  are  now  looking  for  his  body,  as  all  hope 
that  he  is  living  has  been  abandoned.  It  is  thought  he  was  trapped 
by  a  decoy  letter,  ostensibly  from  his  Superior,  the  murderers  believing 
him  to  be  the  bearer  of  a  sum  of  money  to  the  Order,  as  was  fre- 
quently the  case. 

The  article  went  on  to  detail  the  family  connections  of  the 
lost  man,  and  to  eulogize  him  with  something  more  than  the 
usual  warmth. 

Without  comment,  Leone  placed  the  paper  in  Margherita's 
hand,  left  the  loggia,  and,  going  to  the  grove  of  cypress  trees, 
stood  there  looking  far  out  over  the  mountains. 

"  Is  it  not  wonderful,"  Margaret  said  to  Fauvel,  after  read- 
ing the  notice,  "  that  no  one  suspects  the  truth  ?  " 

"  It  is  most  remarkable,"  he  replied,  "  how  easily  satisfied 


The  Hiding  Place  163 

with  a  conclusion  some  persons  are,  and  here  is  proof  of  the 
inefficient  detective  work  done.  A  murder  more  or  less  in  Italy 
does  not  count,  and  I  doubt  if  this  poor  monk  would  have  been 
mentioned  more  than  once  by  the  papers  if  he  had  not  belonged 
to  a  prominent  family." 

"And  you  think  his  identity  is  safe  up  here?"  Margaret 
asked. 

"  Perfectly.  It  would  not  be  wise  for  him  to  go  into  Peru- 
gia and  other  cities  or  towns  where  there  are  Franciscan  con- 
vents, for  fear  of  recognition.  Their  members  are  always 
changing  from  one  of  their  houses  to  another." 

"  No,"  she  said,  "  the  disgrace  of  being  found  out  would  be 
terrible  to  him." 

"  There  is  no  danger,"  said  Fauvel,  "  if  he  does  as  I  say." 
He  soaked  a  piece  of  cake  in  his  tea,  and  fed  it  to  the  macaw, 
whose  stand  was  close  beside  him.  "  It  is  always  well  to  avoid 
unpleasant  episodes  if  possible." 

While  he  was  intent  on  his  pet,  Margaret  slipped  away  and 
joined  Leone. 

"  Why  are  you  so  silent,  Leone  mfo?  "  she  asked,  linking  her 
arm  through  his;  "  has  that  article  hurt  you?  " 

He  laughed  softly.  "  No,"  he  said,  "  nothing  could  please 
me  more.  It  has  all  managed  itself  so  easily;  it  has  all  come 
about  so  wonderfully."  Then  a  strange,  sweet  smile  passed 
over  his  face,  and  he  added  very  quietly,  "  It  seems  almost  like 
the  hand  of  God." 

"  What  do  you  mean?  "  she  said.  This  was  a  phase  in  his 
nature  that  she  could  not  comprehend.  He  seemed  to  be  mov- 
ing in  a  transport  of  hallowed  delight,  without  a  feeling  of  guilt 
to  mar  his  happiness.  There  was  no  hypocrisy  about  him,  no 
shame.  Suddenly  and  without  compunction  he  had  settled  all 
his  religious  doubts  and  duties  in  the  one  idea  that  "  God  is 
love,"  and  he  was  living  on  in  the  same  unconscious  state  of 
happiness  as  the  woodland  creatures  who  know  no  sin.  Mar- 
garet was  still  normal.  There  were  things  she  did  not  wish  to 


164  A  Cry  of  Youth 

think  of,  and  others  she  wished  to  forget.  She  was  learning 
each  day  to  stifle  her  conscience  more  and  more.  She  loved 
Leone  tenderly,  devotedly,  passionately,  and  as  long  as  she  had 
him  near  her  that  was  the  chief  thing,  and  she  settled  all  in  the 
one  word,  "Fate." 

"  What  do  you  mean,"  she  asked  again ;  "  why  is  it  like  the 
hand  of  God?" 

"  Because  it  has  all  come  about  so  wonderfully.  I  made  the 
sacrifice  that  my  calling  required.  I  left  you,  God  knows  that. 
I  parted  from  you,  though  it  wrenched  body  and  soul  apart. 
Do  you  know  the  Scripture  story  of  Abraham  and  Isaac,  Mar- 
gherita?  How  God  called  Abraham  and  told  him  to  make  a 
burnt  offering  of  Isaac,  his  son,  and  Abraham  obeyed  though  it 
broke  his  heart,  and  just  as  he  had  bound  Isaac  to  the  faggots 
and  was  about  to  light  them,  the  Angel  of  the  Lord  called  to 
him  from  heaven  to  stop,  saying  that  God  did  not  desire  him 
to  slay  Isaac.  The  Lord  saw  that  Abraham  was  willing  to 
obey,  that  was  all  He  required  of  him.  He  saw  that  I  was 
willing  to  obey,  and  when  I  had,  you  came  to  me  again  like  a 
gift  from  God.  So  I  know  that  He  is  not  angry  with  me,  for 
He  is  our  loving  Father  and  wants  all  His  children  to  be 
happy." 

Arm  in  arm  they  walked  through  the  trees  and  out  upon  the 
ramparts  where  a  buttress  hid  them  from  Fauvel,  who  sat 
watching  them,  leaning  against  a  column  of  the  loggia  with  his 
macaw  upon  his  arm. 

"  This  newspaper  talk  is  the  most  blessed  solution  of  my  dis- 
appearance," Leone  said,  "  for  there  is  no  one  to  really  mourn 
or  grieve.  My  mother,"  bitterly,  "  has  other  children  and 
ceased  to  care  for  me  long  ago.  Donna  Bianca  will  feel  badly," 
he  added  sorrowfully;  "  she  loves  me,  but  she  has  her  daughter 
and  is  far  away.  Daniele  I  think  will  be  sorry,  but  he  also  has 
other  interests  and  leads  a  pleasant  society  life;  he  will  soon 
forget  me.  My  companions,  the  brothers,  and  my  dear  old 
Padre  Carlo,  they  will  miss  me  and  grieve  for  me,  but  they  have 


The  Hiding"  Place  165 

the  consolation  of  their  religion.  Already  I  suppose  they  are 
saying  masses  for  my  soul,  believing  me  dead." 

"  But  you  are  not  dead,  Leone — " 

"  Ah,  no,  amore  mio;  death  seems  horrible  to  me,"  he  said, 
shuddering.  "  I  want  to  live,  to  live  as  long  as  the  mountains, 
to  love  you,  Margherita.  I  feel  as  if  I  could  never  die!  I 
could  never  be  so  dead  that  I  would  not  feel  your  kiss;  if  you 
walked  over  my  grave  it  would  bring  me  back  to  life.  I  should 
rise  up  through  the  sod  and  clasp  you  to  the  heart  that  had  com- 
menced to  beat  once  more !  " 

"  But  I  might  die  — " 

"  No,  no,  diletto  mio!"  He  threw  his  arms  around  her  and 
held  her  tightly,  as  if  to  keep  her  forever.  "  God  would  not  be 
so  cruel  as  to  take  you  from  me,"  and  his  beautiful  eyes  burned 
with  tenderest  light  through  the  quick  tears  that  rose  at  the 
mere  thought  of  losing  her.  He  pressed  her  to  him  in  such  a 
desperate  embrace  that  she  could  scarcely  breathe.  He  was  a 
typical  child  of  that  country  and  people  where  passion  reigns 
supreme.  "  Ah,"  he  murmured,  "  no  one  has  ever  lived  until 
they  know  freedom  and  love !  " 

The  last  spark  of  remorse  had  been  quenched  and  the  lovers 
cast  away  all  trouble,  while  they  swore  a  devotion  as  eternal  as 
the  hills. 


CHAPTER  XVI 
COUNTING  THE  COST 

"  O  gentle,  blythe  and  thoughtless  youth 
Go  dancing  on  your  way; 
For  soon  the  bitter  fount  you'll  meet 
And  of  its  cup,  alas !  alas ! 
Perchance  you'll  drink  ere  you  shall  pass, 
Then  find  the  rose-clouds  gray." 

Fauvel  had  been  absent  from  the  castle  for  several  weeks, 
traveling  through  Umbria  and  studying  the  works  of  Giotto 
and  Perugino.  It  was  nearly  the  middle  of  October  and  he 
was  due  in  Rome  by  the  twenty-fifth. 

Altogether  he  was  well  pleased  with  his  summer  work.  He 
had  a  great  picture  of  Estori,  as  "  Youth,"  near  completion ; 
besides,  he  had  numerous  sketches  of  him,  and  he  felt  that  he 
had  made  progress  in  his  art. 

He  was  sorry  to  leave  the  country  in  its  autumnal  beauty, 
while  the  ringing  axes  were  sending  down  the  tree  trunks  with 
the  falling  acorns  of  the  scarlet  oak,  and  the  yellow  leaves  of 
the  chestnut.  He  had  come  back  to  spend  the  last  few  days  at 
Rocca  Serrata  and  see  how  his  household  was  progressing. 

Margaret  made  a  charming  little  menagere,  and  his  domestic 
arrangements  had  never  been  so  well  ordered  as  under  her  neat 
and  systematic  American  ways.  By  her  directions  old  curtains 
were  mended,  marbles  were  scrubbed  and  dust  and  cobwebs  re- 
moved. Fauvel  had  felt  quite  at  ease  in  leaving  the  place  in 
care  of  the  "  Belmontes  " ;  he  was  a  little  surprised  that  they 
were  not  around  to  welcome  him. 

When  he  left,  a  merry  game  of  battledore  and  shuttlecock 
had  been  going  on  in  the  courtyard.  The  sun  had  shone 
brightly  that  day  five  weeks  ago,  and  the  sky  had  been  blue; 

166 


Counting-  the  Cost  167 

now  dark,  sullen,  threatening  clouds  hung  low  over  the  moun- 
tains. 

Clemente  had  taken  his  luggage  and  brought  him  refresh- 
ment, but  still  his  proteges  had  not  appeared.  "  The  Signer 
and  Signora  Belmonte,  are  they  well,"  Fauvel  asked,  "  and  are 
they  at  home  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Illustrissimo,  I  believe  so ;  that  is,  the  Signore.  Shall 
I  tell  him  the  Professore  has  come?  " 

"  No,  never  mind;  I  will  find  them  myself." 

Fauvel  went  upstairs  first,  but  they  were  not  in  their  rooms ; 
he  called  but  no  one  answered;  then  he  came  down  on  the  ter- 
race and  gardens,  but  they  were  nowhere  to  be  seen.  He  start- 
ed to  walk  around  the  grounds.  Away  off  by  the  ruins  he  saw 
Margaret. 

On  this  side  of  the  castle  the  path  was  overgrown  with  dank 
weeds;  no  one  came  here,  as  it  was  considered  unsafe,  for  there 
was  a  great  rift  in  the  tower  wall,  whose  top  had  already 
fallen.  Even  now  as  Fauvel  came  towards  it  a  dislodged  stone 
slipped  from  its  place,  adding  one  more  to  the  pile  of  ruin 
below.  He  was  rather  provoked  that  she  should  be  there;  he 
had  cautioned  them  'both;  besides,  the  treacherous  well  was. 
close  by. 

This  well  had  been  here  from  time  immemorial,  long  before 
Rocca  Serrata  had  been  built  or  thought  of.  It  had  probably 
counted  in  deciding  the  site  of  the  castle.  It  was  a  deep,  nat- 
ural reservoir,  fed  from  subterranean  springs  that  had  their 
source  in  a  higher  range  of  mountains.  Fauvel  believed  it  had 
been  a  shepherd's  well  in  the  Pelasgic  or  Etruscan  era,  as  the 
remnants  of  the  wall  he  knew  to  be  Etruscan,  not  Roman,  work. 

Margaret  was  going  straight  towards  it;  unless  one  was  fa- 
miliar with  its  exact  location  on  this  rough,  uneven  ground,  a 
step  too  near  might  prove  fatal. 

Fauvel  hurried  his  pace;  she  did  not  see  him,  as  he  was  be- 
hind her  and  he  was  afraid  to  call  for  fear  of  startling  her. 
She  was  acting  very  strangely.  She  went  forward  a  step  or 


168  A  Cry  of  Youth 

two,  then  retreated,  as  if  recoiling;  suddenly  she  threw  her  arms 
out  in  a  desperate  gesture  and  raised  her  head  as  if  imploring 
aid  from  above. 

In  an  instant  Fauvel  was  behind  her,  putting  his  hands  on 
her  outstretched  arms.  She  gave  a  little  scream  and  turned. 

"  Oh,"  she  cried,  "  Fauvel,  how  you  frightened  me!  " 

"  You  frightened  me,  Margherita,"  he  said.  "  See  there," 
and  keeping  firm  hold  of  her,  he  led  her  forward  a  yard  or  so, 
and  showed  her  a  large  circular  opening  in  the  rocky  ground, 
where  far  below  gleamed  black  water. 

"  This  well  is  fathoms  deep,"  he  said,  "  it  goes  down,  down 
into  the  maw  of  the  mountain;  if  you  fell  in,  there  could  be 
no  rescue." 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  "  I  know  it.     That  is  why  I  am  here." 

"Margherita!" 

"  I  came  here  to  die,"  she  said.  "  Two  or  three  times  I've 
tried  it  —  yes,  I've  tried  to  throw  myself  in,  but  I  cannot;  it's 
so  dark  and  terrible  down  there,  and  I'm  so  young  to  die!  " 

"  Margherita !  "  He  turned  her  around  sharply  and  looked 
at  her.  She  was  very  white,  and  there  was  an  unmistakable 
expression  in  the  eyes  that  dropped  beneath  his  scrutiny. 

"  You  are  ill,"  he  said,  "  and  not  yourself.  You  would  never 
contemplate  suicide  if  in  your  senses." 

"  Yes,  I  am  ill,"  she  moaned.  As  she  spoke  she  became  still 
paler,  staggered,  and  would  have  fallen  had  not  Fauvel  caught 
her. 

"  Come  away  from  here,"  he  said;  "  come  back  to  the  house 
and  lie  down  and  I  will  give  you  something  to  make  you  feel 
better." 

"  Oh,"  she  cried,  "  it's  too  awful !  I  can't  bear  it,  I  did  not 
think  —  I  did  not  count  the  cost.  It  was  a  summer  night,  a 
beautiful  dream.  It  seemed  as  if  the  world  had  become  a  para- 
dise and  that  summer  would  last  forever.  But  the  birds  have 
stopped  singing,  the  sun  has  not  shone  for  days,  and  winter 
will  soon  come,  as  it  is  coming  to  me  —  the  winter  of  life." 


Counting'  the  Cost  169 

"The  'winter  of  life,'  Margherita,  means  old  age;  it  does 
not  mean  motherhood." 

"  Oh,  stop,  stop !  "  she  wailed,  covering  her  face  with  her 
hands.  "  I  cannot  bear  it." 

"  I  thought  you  loved  Leone,"  he  said  very  gently. 

"  I  do,  I  do;  but  the  disgrace  —  it  is  that!  If  he  were  really 
free,  as  other  men,  it  would  not  be  so  bad  —  but  it  is  the 
thought  that  the  father  of  my  child  is  —  is  —  oh,  it  is  that  part 
I  cannot  bear,  even  if  we  were  married !  No  matter  how  safely 
we  may  hide  his  habit,  no  matter  how  cleverly  we  may  lose  his 
identity,  it  is  that  thought  that  is  with  me  constantly;  it  burns 
into  my  soul,  it  drives  me  mad,  it  makes  me  want  to  kill  my- 
self." 

"  Hush,  hush,  this  is  folly.  He  is-  no  longer  a  monk,  he  is 
the  man  who  worships  you.  If  you  kill  yourself  you  will  kill 
him  also." 

"  All  the  better  perhaps  for  us  both  to  die." 

"  Nonsense !     You  will  both  live  to  be  happy  parents." 

Fauvel  picked  up  a  black  lace  scarf  that  she  had  let  fall  and 
put  it  round  her  neck. 

"  Monsieur,"  she  began,  turning  to  him  her  white,  appealing 
face,  "  you  do  not  seem  to  understand  how  I  feel.  You  met 
me  a  penniless  waif  in  Rome,  and  you  were  kind  to  me  always, 
and  then  you  brought  me  here,  and  — " 

"  Throw  the  blame  all  on  me,  Margherita,  I  can  bear  it;  I 
am  to  blame,  I  deceived  you  — " 

"  No,  I  was  not  going  to  say  that.  I  was  a  poor  little  nobody 
in  Rome  whom  you  were  kind  to,  but  at  my  home  in  New  York 
my  family  on  both  sides  are  well-known  people.  We  have 
been  poor  only  since  my  father's  death.  I  have  wealthy  rela- 
tives whose  position  is  second  to  none  in  their  own  land.  I  am 
as  well  born  in  the  United  States  as  Leone  Estori  is  in  Italy. 
My  mother  and  sister  are  very  proud  — " 

"  They  were  not  too  proud  to  let  you  starve." 

"  They  could  not  help  that.     My  sister  has  nothing  but  what 


170  A  Cry  of  Youth 

her  husband  gives  her,  and  he  is  supporting  my  mother.  Be- 
sides, I  never  let  them  know  half  the  trouble  I  was  in.  I  wrote 
them  I  was  getting  on  nicely,  just  as  I  wrote  them  this  summer 
giving  them  a  false  impression  of  the  Belmontes  and  everything 
here.  But  I  would  rather  drown  myself  now  than  have  them 
ever  know  the  truth.  Oh,  Fauvel,"  she  cried  desperately,  "  you 
are  a  doctor,  you  can  help  me.  Do  something  for  me,  help  me, 
help  me!  " 

"  I  will  help  you  when  the  time  .comes.  If  you  take  care  of 
yourself  you  will  be  the  mother  of  one  of  the  loveliest  children 
ever  born." 

"  The  child  shall  never  be  born." 

"  Hush,"  he  said  sternly,  "  that  is  insane  talk.  What  does 
Leone  say?  " 

"  Oh,  he  is  glad,  but  then  he  does  not  appear  to  understand 
right  from  wrong  any  more.  He  is  always  happy." 

"  And  so  will  you  be  too,  ma  chere.  You  have  had  a  shock 
and  you  are  ill.  You  will  feel  differently  by  and  by.  Go  back 
to  the  house  and  order  a  fire  made  in  the  cedaf  room  and  I  will 
be  there  directly.  Here  comes  Leone,  and  I  want  to  speak 
with  him  first." 

Margaret  pulled  her  scarf  over  her  head  and  obeyed,  and  as 
she  left  Leone  came  bounding  up. 

"  Meurice,  Meurice,  how  glad  I  am  to  see  you !  "  and  he 
flung  his  arms  around  Fauvel  in  the  warmth  of  his  greeting. 
"  I  should  have  been  at  the  gate  to  meet  you,  but  Margherita 
has  not  been  well  and  I  was  reading  aloud  to  her,  trying  to 
amuse  her,  when  Beppo  came  and  said  there  was  a  peddler  in 
the  servants'  hall.  I  wanted  some  lead  pencils,  and  while  I 
was  gone  Margherita  slipped  away.  I  knew  she  was  outdoors 
for  her  scarf  was  gone.  I  was  searching  for  her  all  over, 
and  at  last  I  came  here  and  saw  you  both  talking  to- 
gether, and  she  has  gotten  ahead  of  me  in  welcoming  you 
home." 

Leone  was  the  personification  of  youth  and  health  and  buoy- 


Counting'  the  Cost  171 

ancy.  He  had  a  proud,  expectant  look  in  his  great  eyes,  com- 
bined with  a  certain  seriousness. 

"  I  missed  you  in  your  accustomed  place  when  I  came  up," 
said  Fauvel,  "  but  you  are  right,  you  must  always  think  of  Mar- 
gherita  first." 

"  Meurice,"  he  began,  "  I  have  something  to  tell  you ;  "  he 
blushed  as  he  spoke,  and  hesitated.  "  When  the  Spring  comes, 
when  the  syringa  is  in  bloom,  there  may  be  another  one  of  us 
here.  A  very  small  some  one  —  shall  you  be  glad,  Meurice  — 
shall  you  like  it  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Fauvel,  smiling,  "  I  shall  be  very  glad." 

"  I  knew  you  would  say  so,"  Leone  exclaimed,  delighted. 
"  Margherita  thought  you  would  be  angry." 

"I  angry!     Why?" 

"  Because  she  said  that  you  supported  us  now  and  it  would 
make  one  more  — " 

"  The  castle  is  big  enough,  is  it  not,  to  hold  another?  " 

"  Oh,  Meurice,  how  good  you  are !  Now  I  am  quite 
happy." 

"  Margherita  is  not  happy,"  said  Fauvel ;  "  she  is  miser- 
able." 

"  I  know,"  Leone  replied  soberly;  "she  seems  to  look  upon 
it  as  a  disgrace.  I  have  told  her  I  will  face  everything  and  we 
will  be  married — " 

"  If  you  wish  to  create  a  big  scandal  there  would  be  no  surer 
way  of  doing  it  than  by  marrying  at  present.  It  would  be 
useless  to  marry  her  under  the  name  of  Belmonte,  as  it  would 
not  be  legal  and  if  you  came  out  boldly  with  your  true  name 
you  would  be  recognized  at  once  as  the  lost  Estori.  You  would 
have  headlines  in  all  the  papers,  '  Fra  Felice,  the  runaway  monk, 
and  Miss  Margaret  Randolph,  the  American  girl,  who  enticed 
him  from  the  cloister.'  The  news  would  be  cabled  to  New 
York  and  —  zipp !  a  fine  broil  for  you  both.  A  delicate  bit  you 
would  furnish  to  the  gossips  of  Rome  for  many  a  long  day! 
Marriage  in  the  future  to  legitimatize  your  child  will  be  all 


172  A  Cry  of  Youth 

very  well,  when  you  are  forgotten  and  people  have  ceased  to 
think  of  you;  when  there  would  be  no  danger  of  dragging  in 
Margherita's  name  with  your  own,  as  would  be  inevitable  at 
present,  and  the  marriage  when  feasible  to  consider  it  must  take 
place  in  some  foreign  country,  not  in  Italy." 

"  That  is  all  true,  Meurice,  but  it  hurts  me  so,  when  she 
talks  of  disgrace.  I  don't  know  what  to  think  — " 

"  Do  not  think  at  all,  caro  mio;  let  me  do  the  thinking  for 
you.  How  often  have  I  told  you  both  to  trust  me.  I  will 
manage  this  as  I  have  managed  everything  else  for  you.  Mar- 
gherita  is  feeling  miserably  ill  at  present  and  inclined  to  be 
melancholy.  That  is  not  unusual  under  the  circumstances.  In 
a  few  weeks  the  illness  will  pass  off  and  she  will  be  herself 
again,  but  in  the  meantime  she  needs  care  and  watching.  She 
ought  to  have  some  sensible,  older  woman  with  her.  A  woman 
fteeds  the  companionship  of  her  own  sex  at  this  time,  some  one 
tvho  can  wait  upon  her  and  be  companionable  as  well.  Lisa 
is  only  a  faithful  animal,  with  no  mind  above  her  housework. 
I  wish  I  knew  the  right  person  — " 

"  There  is  some  one  in  Rome,"  suggested  Leone,  "  whom 
she  is  very  fond  of,  a  middle-aged  woman,  who  was  maid  at 
that  fashionable  pension-school  where  Margherita  lived  when  I 
first  met  her.  She  speaks  of  her  constantly,  and  often  says  she 
longs  to  see  her;  she  is  an  educated  woman  and  devoted  to 
Margherita." 

"  Has  she  ever  seen  you  ?  " 

"  Never  seen  or  heard  of  me." 

"  The  very  one.  Ask  Margherita  to  write  her  and  see  if 
she  will  come  out  here.  She  can  say  she  is  now  the  Signora 
Belmonte  and  anything  else  she  chooses.  Tell  Margherita  to 
offer  her  whatever  wages  she  thinks  right  and  direct  her  to  come 
by  way  of  Fossato,  and  some  one  will  meet  her.  And  now  I 
have  something  important  to  say  to  you.  In  case  of  my 
death  — " 

"  Oh,  Meurice,  stop  —  stop !  " 


Counting"  the  Cost  173 

"  Listen  to  me,"  said  the  older  man  peremptorily.  "  In  case 
of  my  death,  you  are  to  live  here  as  long  as  you  choose,  for  I 
have  left  Rocca  Serrata  to  you  in  my  will." 

"Meurice!" 

"  Wait,  there  will  be  an  income  too,  and  each  year  there  is  a 
little  money  to  be  made  from  the  pine  woods  on  the  slopes 
which  belong  to  this  property.  Clemente  understands  the  sale 
of  it;  you  are  to  consult  him  in  business;  he  is  shrewd." 

"  How  can  I  ever  thank  you  for  all  you  do  for  me!  "  Leone 
said  in  grateful  tones ;  "  but  you  are  not  going  to  die." 

"  We  all  die  sooner  or  later  —  to-day,  to-morrow,  twenty 
years  from  now  —  and  it  is  criminal  not  to  settle  one's  affairs. 
As  to  my  being  good  to  you,  I  think  I  am  only  fair  to  you.  I 
took  you  away  from  the  calling  where  you  were  provided  for 
for  life.  I  am  merely  doing  my  duty  by  you.  You  also  are 
good  to  me;  you  are  my  best  and  most  patient  model.  I  shall 
want  a  sitting  to-day." 

"  Certainly;  what  costume?     Shall  I  get  ready  at  once?  " 

"  No,  at  four  o'clock ;  the  light  will  be  good  for  an  hour,  and 
dress  for  the  '  Street  Musician.'  To-morrow  early  we  will 
have  our  last  sitting  for  '  Youth.'  I  want  you  to  be  as  fresh  as 
a  lettuce  for  that,  and  you  don't  look  quite  up  to  the  mark  at 
present." 

"  I  have  been  worried  about  Margherita,  but  I  am  relieved 
now  that  you  know  and  are  pleased.  Will  you  tell  Margherita 
also  that  you  are  glad,  and  that  we  will  all  be  happy  together, 
and  explain  about  the  marriage  and  ask  her  not  to  talk  of  dis- 
grace. I  cannot  understand  her;  for  me  it  will  be  such  a  joy 
to  have  the  little  one." 

Fauvel  looked  at  him.  His  eyes  were  sparkling  with  pride 
and  happiness.  What  a  boy  he  was,  without  realization  of  the 
responsibilities  of  life. 

"  Leone  Estori,"  said  Fauvel  solemnly,  "  you  must  always  be 
good  to  Margherita  and  your  child  as  long  as  you  live." 

"  Meurice,"  he  replied  equally  solemnly,  "  if  I  am  ever  any- 


174  A  Cry  of  Youth 

thing  but  good  to  Margherita  and  my  own  child,  I  hope  you 
will  kick  me  down  the  well." 

Fauvel  smiled.  "  That  is  the  proper  sentiment,"  he  said ; 
"  now  go  and  find  her.  I  am  going  to  the  stables,  then  I  will 
join  you,  and  remember,  no  matter  what  happiness  this  event 
may  bring  to  you,  it  will  not  be  all  joy  for  Margherita." 

Margaret  was  huddled  up  on  a  couch  in  the  cedar-room  with 
her  face  to  the  wall  when  Leone  found  her.  She  was  shiver- 
ing and  shaking  with  a  chill.  He  threw  more  wood  on  the  fire 
and  taking  down  a  heavy  cloak  that  was  hanging  upon  antlers, 
wrapped  it  tenderly  around  her  and  knelt  down  beside  her. 

"  Heart  of  my  heart,"  he  whispered,  "  do  not  be  so  sad. 
Fauvel  is  not  angry;  he  is  pleased.  He  says  also  that  you  will 
feel  better  soon.  Turn  and  look  at  me,  I  have  something  good 
to  tell  thee,"  falling  into  the  sweet  form  of  speaking  that  he  so 
often  used :  "  Fauvel  says  that  we  are  to  send  for  that  woman 
of  thine  in  Rome  who  is  fond  of  thee  —  Giacinta,  is  it  not  ?  — 
to  come  and  take  care  of  thee." 

"  Oh,  that  would  be  good,"  she  said,  turning  towards  him 
and  brushing  away  a  tear  ,"  how  I  should  love  to  see  her,  my 
<lear  Giacinta.  Did  he  really  say  so  ?  How  kind  he  is !  " 

Then  Leone  explained  how  she  was  to  write  as  Fauvel  had 
arranged  and  when  the  latter  entered  a  few  moments  later  he 
found  them  side  by  side  on  the  couch  composing  a  letter. 

He  drew  up  a  chair  and  sat  down.  "  Let  me  have  the  paper 
and  pencil  a  moment,"  he  said  to  Leone,  and  wrote  a  prescrip- 
tion. "  Here  is  something  for  Margherita ;  find  Beppo  and  tell 
him  to  take  Fiora  and  ride  to  Fossato  and  get  the  apothecary  to 
put  this  up,  I  am  all  out  of  it  here." 

Leone  rushed  off  to  do  his  bidding  and  Fauvel  talked  seri- 
ously with  Margaret,  asking  questions  and  assuring  her  that 
she  should  have  every  care  and  attention,  showing  her  the  in- 
advisability  of  a  hasty  marriage  and  cautioning  her  not  to  be 
melancholy  or  think  of  disgrace. 

"  What  a  friend  you  are  to  us,  Monsieur,"  she  said,  when  he 


Counting'  the  Cost  175 

had  consoled  and  comforted  her,  "  and  we,  we  are  just  an  ex- 
pense and  a  trouble  to  you." 

"  Margherita,"  he  answered,  "  it  displeases  me  to  have  you 
say  such  things.  I  take  a  selfish  pleasure  in  having  you  two 
young  people  here.  It  is  nothing  to  my  credit."  Then  rising 
and  changing  his  tone,  he  said  cheerfully,  "  And  now,  little 
Lady  Belmonte,  with  your  gracious  permission  I  will  ring  for 
tea.  You  are  to  lie  still  and  direct  in  the  making,  and  you  shall 
see  what  clumsy  fellows  Leone  and  I  will  be  handling  the  cups 
and  saucers." 

In  less  than  two  weeks  Giacinta  had  become  a  member  of 
the  castle  household.  She  had  had  several  months'  rest  from 
service  and  entered  into  the  duties  of  her  position  with  much 
zeal,  delighted  that  her  prophecy  had  come  true  and  that  the 
Signorina  Randolph  had  found  "  a  brave  young  signore  "  and 
was  "  happily  married." 

She  was  called  "  Sora  Giacinta  "  by  the  other  servants,  as  her 
position  was  above  theirs,  being  a  sort  of  general  manager  now 
that  the  young  mistress  was  indisposed. 

And  her  coming  brought  the  utmost  relief  to  Margaret.  It 
was  so  good  to  have  some  one  of  her  own  sex,  to  whom  she  could 
talk  intelligently,  and  Giacinta  was  lavish  in  her  motherly  care 
for  Margaret's  health  and  comfort.  She  was  also  an  excellent 
seamstress  and  soon  interested  "  the  Signora  "  in  pretty  needle- 
work. 

In  the  short  winter  afternoons  the  two  would  sit  together 
with  their  sewing  downstairs  in  the  cedar  room.  This  was  the 
most  comfortable  and  homelike  room  in  the  castle,  the  floor, 
wainscoted  walls,  and  raftered  ceiling  being  entirely  of  cedar. 
The  sun  poured  in  through  the  deep  recessed  windows,  and  it 
had  an  immense  fireplace  where  they  kept  up  a  roaring  fire. 
They  had  arranged  a  portion  of  it  near  the  fireplace  with  a  rug, 
a  couch,  and  a  big  square  table  that  held  a  powerful  oil  lamp. 

Margaret  was  feeling  much  better,  as  Fauvel  had  predicted, 
was  resigned,  and  even  taking  a  sort  of  secret  pleasure  in  the 


176  A  Cry  of  Youth 

scallops  and  dots  she  was  fashioning  on  a  flannel  petticoat. 
Every  now  and  then  she  would  pause  in  her  work  and  hand  it 
over  for  inspection.  Sometimes  Giacinta  would  shake  her  head 
disapprovingly,  rip  out  the  dot  and  watch  Margaret  do  it  over, 
as  everything  must  be  very  neat  for  the  little  one.  Margaret 
thought  her  very  particular,  she  was  impatient  to  finish  it  and 
see  how  it  would  look  laid  away  between  dried  rose-leaves  in  a 
drawer  upstairs  with  a  few  other  tiny  garments. 

"  Signora  mia,  take  more  pains,"  Giacinta  would  say  coax- 
ingly ;  "  it  is  such  fine  stuff  we  will  keep  this  for  his  baptism. 
We  will  make  a  real  festa  that  day.  Lisa  shall  bake  a  great 
cake  all  over  frosting;  I  will  show  her  the  kind,  you  shall  see." 

Then  Margaret  would  be  silent  for  a  time,  thinking  perhaps 
how  an  archbishop  had  baptized  her  sister's  first  baby  in  his 
christening-robe  of  real  lace,  and  of  the  elaborate  supper  served. 
How  different  things  were  between  herself  and  Josephine! 
She  never  heard  her  own  language  now,  and  often  said  laugh- 
ingly that  she  would  soon  forget  how  to  speak  it.  Though 
perfectly  happy,  she  felt  utterly  out  of  the  world;  hunters, 
shepherds,  quarrymen,  and  charcoal  burners  were  the  only  peo- 
ple who  frequented  the  mountain;  it  was  not  the  season  for 
travelers,  and  visitors  were  unheard  of.  And  the  silence  would 
continue  until  a  big  log  in  the  fireplace  would  fall  away  from 
the  others,  sending  out  a  shower  of  red  sparks,  and  Giacinta 
would  move  back  her  chair  quickly,  take  up  a  primitive  broom 
of  twigs  bound  together,  and  brush  back  the  red-hot  ashes. 

In  after  years  whenever  Margaret  would  perceive  the  faint, 
pleasant  odor  of  cedar,  this  room  and  the  objects  it  contained 
would  rise  before  her,  and  the  uneventful  hours  that  she  had 
passed  in  it,  and  the  eventful  ones  that  were  to  come,  had  their 
memories  —  happy,  sweet,  tragic  —  all  centered  there. 

Meanwhile,  Leone  would  be  writing  verses.  He  had  ar- 
ranged a  studio  for  himself,  and  had  a  good-sized  scaldino  filled 
with  live  charcoal  near  him,  and  although  he  could  see  his 
breath  as  he  wrote,  he  did  not  mind  the  chilly  atmosphere  in 


Counting  the  Cost  177 

the  least;  it  suited  his  warm  young  blood  and  he  would  be 
miserable  crouching  beside  a  fire  as  Margherita  did. 

The  magazine  published  in  Florence  accepted  a  great  deal 
that  he  sent,  but  paid  the  merest  trifle,  yet  it  gave  him  occupa- 
tion and  encouragement,  and  Fauvel  believed  in  his  ability  and 
that  it  would  develop  as  he  developed. 

Leone  was  neither  industrious  nor  ambitious  by  nature,  and 
was  quite  contented  with  the  "  dolce-far-niente,"  but  now  the 
thought  that  he  was  soon  to  become  a  father  had  aroused  him. 

He  wished  to  be  a  famous  poet  so  that  his  child  might  be 
proud  of  him,  and  he  was  working  at  his  manuscripts  in  thor^ 
ough  earnest.  Already  he  saw  on  imaginary  book-shelves  hand- 
somely bound  volumes  entitled  "  Poetical  Works  of  Belmonte." 

The  year  was  drawing  to  a  close,  and  with  it  came  the  great 
Festivals  of  the  Church. 

On  the  Feast  of  the  Immaculate  Conception  Giacinta  re- 
minded Margaret  that  they  attended  mass  together  the  pre- 
vious year  in  Rome,  but  no  notice  was  taken  of  the  day  at  the 
castle.  Giacinta  was  surprised  upon  her  first  coming  that  no 
one  but  Lisa  ever  went  to  mass.  The  village  was  three  miles 
away  by  the  winding  road  and  had  no  parish  priest,  but  below 
in  the  valley  there  was  a  Monastery  Chapel,  belonging  to  Do- 
minican monks,  who  looked  after  the  spiritual  welfare  of  the 
scattered  inhabitants  of  the  mountainside.  She  learned  from 
the  servants  that  the  padrone  never  went  to  church  and  that 
there  was  no  communication  between  the  monastery  and  the 
castle,  and  as  for  the  Signor  Belmonte,  he  had  such  a  dislike 
for  the  clergy  that  if  he  saw  a  priest  or  a  monk  on  the  road,  or 
in  the  village,  he  would  turn  out  of  his  way  to  avoid  him. 

This  troubled  the  pious  Giacinta.  She  had  taken  a  great 
liking  to  the  young  master,  and  wondered  how  any  one  with 
his  sweet  nature  and  beautiful  face  could  be  so  godless,  and  it 
grieved  her  that  Margaret  also  had  apparently  grown  callous, 
when  now  of  all  times  a  woman  needed  to  be  faithful  to  her 
religion.  The  twelfth  of  December  was  the  anniversary  of 


178  A  Cry  of  Youth 

the  meeting  of  Leone  and  Margaret.  In  the  afternoon  he  per- 
suaded her  to  take  a  walk,  and  upon  their  return  he  pointed  to 
the  cold,  yellow  sun  now  low  in  the  heavens  and  said :  "  It  was 
just  at  this  hour  one  year  ago  that  we  met.  I  looked  into  your 
eyes,  Margherita,  and  you  looked  into  mine,  and  at  once  we 
loved  each  other,  at  once,  amoref  " 

"  Yes,"  she  answered,  "  and  when  I  went  back  to  the  house  I 
thought  you  were  a  dream.  I  had  the  rose  that  you  left  in  the 
Gesu  when  we  knelt  together.  I  still  have  that  rose,  Leone." 

"  And  we  both  thought  we  would  never  see  each  other  again, 
but  I  loved  you  from  that  first  moment." 

"  I  too,"  she  said,  "  though  I  did  not  realize  it." 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment,  then  she  added  musingly: 
"  Where  will  we  be  this  time  next  year,  I  wonder?  " 

"  Here,"  he  said,  "  right  here  " ;  then,  very  tenderly,  "  thou, 
and  I  and  the  little  one." 

Margaret  sighed. 

She  could  not  look  forward  to  the  birth  of  this  child  with 
any  of  the  gladness  that  he  did.  With  him  it  was  just  another 
beautiful  link  in  their  rose-chain.  They  had  dropped  out  of 
the  world  to  dwell  together  in  love,  and  that  a  child  should  be 
born  to  them  was  only  as  it  should  be.  Here  again  they  failed 
to  understand  each  other.  It  was  the  temperamental  difference. 

The  country  was  now  white  with  snow  as  the  days  sped  on 
toward  Christmas.     Fauvel,  who  had  been  in  Rome  since  No- 
vember, sent  a  big  box  of  nougat  and  chocolates,  with  "  Buon 
Natale." 

Margaret  sighed  as  she  listened  to  the  monastery  bells  which 
reached  them  through  the  clear,  frosty  air,  ring  out  the  glad 
tidings  of  the  Nativity.  She  thought  of  her  mother  and  sister; 
how  Josephine  and  her  lawfully  wedded  husband  could  go  to 
mass  together  with  light  hearts  this  holy  day.  She  thought  of 
her  dead  father,  and  the  merry  Christmas  parties  they  had  had 
when  he  was  living.  He  had  been  a  convert  to  the  Roman 
Catholic  faith,  and  a  loyal  follower  of  its  teachings  to  the  day 


Counting"  the  Cost  179 

of  his  death.  She  wondered  if  he  could  see  her  now,  her  dear 
father,  who  only  knew  her  as  a  little,  innocent  girl  .  .  . 

Just  then  Leone  entered  the  room,  and  she  threw  herself  into 
his  arms,  sobbing,  and  clinging  to  him.  He  was  all  she  had  in 
the  world,  and  she  needed  something  strong  to  lean  upon  at 
that  moment. 

"  Heart's  dearest,  what  is  it,  what  is  it?  " 

"  It  is  Christmas,  Leone,"  she  sobbed,  "  Christmas." 

"  And  a  week  from  to-day  will  be  New  Year's,  treasure  mine; 
what  of  it  ?  " 

She  raised  her  head  from  his  shoulder.  "  Listen,"  she  said,  "  to 
the  bells  — "  and  disengaging  herself  from  his  embrace,  she  went 
to  the  window  and  threw  wide  open  the  leaded  casement  that 
they  might  hear  more  distinctly,  "  have  you  forgotten  what  the 
bells  are  saying?  "  When  he  saw  it  was  a  religious  scruple 
that  was  troubling  her,  he  took  her  in  his  arms  again,  saying 
very  gently,  "  God  is  up  here  with  us,  Margherita  mia,  just  as 
much  as  down  there  in  the  monks'  cold,  cruel  chapel.  I  think 
He  is  more  here  with  us  than  with  them,  for  here  there  is  hu- 
man love  and  down  there  only  worn-out  creeds." 

She  turned  her  face  away,  for  she  saw  that  he  had  thor- 
oughly imbibed  the  sentiments  of  Fauvel,  who  while  bestowing 
upon  him  the  rarest  friendship  had  completely  destroyed  his 
faith.  But  she  loved  him  desperately,  devotedly,  now  more 
than  ever,  while  that  song  the  bells  sung  in*  her  ears  made  her 
feel  like  a  lost  soul  and  that  she  had  nothing  in  heaven  or  on 
earth  but  him. 

He  knew  that  she  was  not  yet  comforted,  so  he  said  in  a 
reverent  voice :  "  Margherita,  I  can  say  the  '  Gloria  in  Excelsis 
Deo '  to-day,  I,  and  '  peace  on  earth  to  men  of  good  will,'  and 
I  understand  God  better  than  I  did  a  year  ago  —  because  He 
has  brought  us  together.  God  is  Love." 


CHAPTER  XVII 
THE  LITTLE  ONE 

The  precious  atoms  drawn  from  heaven  and  earth 
And   rocked  by  Love's  own   music   into  form, 
Compacted    lived:    a    soul    awaited    birth. 

BAYARD  TAYLOR. 

Spring  had  come.  The  edges  of  the  paths  were  purple  with 
violets  and  between  the  moss-grown  stones  little  tender  ferns 
were  uncurling,  the  first  primroses  were  in  blossom  and  the 
Roman  hyacinths  in  the  stiff  old  garden  were  as  blue  as  the  sky. 

Every  day  Margaret  and  Leone  watched  the  springtime  open 
into  fuller  glory.  The  song  birds  were  returning,  and  they 
were  awakened  at  dawn  by  the  happy  notes  of  the  starling  and 
the  woodlark.  Gay  creeping  things  clustered  about  the  trunks 
of  somber  pines  and  cypresses,  narcissus  bloomed  close  to  the 
castle  walls  and  the  honeysuckle  wound  itself  in  playful  gar- 
lands around  the  dignified  columns  of  the  loggia. 

Leone's  whole  nature  seemed  to  respond  to  the  rejoicing  of 
Spring.  He  was  overflowing  with  life  and  health  and  spirits. 
He  would  take  long  rambles  on  the  mountains,  with  no  com- 
panion but  his  happy  thoughts  and  often  run  like  a  boy,  chasing 
the  wild  goats  and  their  kids  that  were  cropping  the  new  grass, 
then  stop  suddenly  and  say  aloud  to  them :  "  This  time  next 
year  I  too  will  have  a  little  one  out  with  me  —  I."  Fauvel  had 
arrived.  The  stout  wagon  had  been  sent  to  Perugia  to  meet 
him  and  had  brought  himself  and  his  luggage  to  Rocca  Serrata 
for  the  summer. 

Fauvel  had  gone  off  for  a  few  hours'  shooting,  but  he  would 
keep  within  hearing  of  a  gun-shot,  and  if  he  were  needed  Leone 
was  to  fire  his  rifle  three  times  and  he  would  return,  for  the  lat- 
ter would  not  be  persuaded  to  leave  Margaret  and  only  went 

180 


The  Little  One  181 

on  his  long  walks  when  she  was  taking  her  nap,  but  he  could 
not  keep  still  and  had  foregone  his  dignity  as  the  "  young 
signore  "  and  invited  Beppo  to  join  him  in  a  game  of  ball. 

Margaret  was  taking  her  customary  morning  walk,  leaning 
on  the  motherly  arm  of  Giacinta,  with  whom  she  felt  less  nerv- 
ous than  with  Leone,  who  was  so  full  of  life  he  could  hardly 
measure  his  dancing  steps  to  her  slow  time. 

Giacinta  had  led  the  signora  to  a  marble  bench  where  she 
sat  down  to  rest  and  watch  Lisa  and  Armida,  a  scullery  maid, 
with  a  basket  of  linen  between  them  which  they  were  carrying 
out  to  bleach.  Margaret  spoke  to  them  pleasantly  as  they 
stopped  in  front  of  her  and  began  to  spread  the  articles 
upon  the  grass,  while  Lisa  asked  respectfully  how  she  was 
feeling. 

"  The  last  few  days  are  very  weary  ones,  signora,"  the  woman 
said,  "  but  to-night  the  moon  is  full  and  almost  always  an  ex- 
pected child  comes  on  the  full  moon ;  I  think  it  will  not  be  long 
now  —  the  signora  has  the  look  — " 

"  My  grandmother  says,"  put  in  Armida,  a  raw  mountain 
peasant  who  did  not  know  her  place,  "  that  it  is  very  unlucky 
to  give  birth  on  the  full  moon  — " 

"  Mache!  "  said  Giacinta  scornfully.  Giacinta  was  city-bred 
and  educated  and  had  little  faith  in  the  superstitions  of  the 
contadini. 

"  Oh,"  cried  Margaret,  grasping  Giacinta's  arm,  "  what  does 
she  say?"  She  could  not  always  understand  the  rough  Um- 
brian  dialect,  but  she  had  caught  the  sense  of  their  words. 

"  Stop  your  foolish  talk,"  cried  Giacinta  to  the  girl,  "  you 
are  frightening  the  signora." 

"  I  frighten  the  signora,"  exclaimed  Armida  indignantly, 
"  no,  no ;  not  for  gold !  But  it  is  well  for  all  Christians  to  be 
prepared." 

In  the  afternoon  when  Fauvel  returned  with  a  string  of 
birds  tied  to  his  rifle,  Leone  ran  out  to  meet  him,  crying: 
"  Meurice,  Meurice,  my  son  will  soon  be  here." 


182  A  Cry  of  Youth 

After  dinner  that  evening  Leone  came  downstairs  looking  for 
Fauvel,  whom  he  found  smoking  on  the  terrace.  He  was  an- 
gered. He  did  not  see  how  Fauvel  could  be  so  calm  and  un- 
concerned while  such  an  important  event  was  about  to  take 
place. 

"  Meurice,"  he  said,  "  she  is  in  great  distress." 

"  Yes,"  said  Fauvel,  "  I  suppose  she  is." 

"  But,  Meurice,  I  thought  it  was  the  part  of  a  physician  to 
relieve  suffering." 

"So  it  is  when  there  is  any  known  remedy;  but  I  know  of 
nothing  for  her  but  patience  and  fortitude.  She  has  both." 

Fauvel  had  become  very  fond  of  Margaret.  He  had  watched 
her  closely  in  the  year  or  more  that  he  had  known  her,  looking 
for  flaws  but  finding  none.  Sensible,  sweet,  refined  and  un- 
selfish he  had  found  her  always,  and  with  a  wonderful  control 
over  Leone  whenever  he- was  inclined  to  be  childish  or  unrea- 
sonable. 

Leone  went  into  the  house  again  but  soon  returned.  Fauvel 
was  still  walking  tip  and  down,  watching  the  stars  come  out 
and  reveling  in  the  sweet,  pure  air  after  the  heat  and  odors  of 
Rome. 

"  She  is  no  better,  Meurice,"  he  said  miserably. 

"  Of  course  not.  She  will  be  much  worse  before  she  can 
hope  to  be  better.  I  am  going  up  to  see  her  as  soon  as  I've 
finished  this  cigar." 

"Will  it  be  soon?"  Leone  asked  nervously,  after  Fauvel 
returned  from  his  visit  to  Margaret. 

"No;  probably  not  until  after  midnight." 

About  ten  o'clock  Fauvel  went  upstairs  again,  stretched  him- 
self on  a  couch  in  Leone's  room,  took  from  his  pocket  a  comic 
French  magazine,  and  set  the  lamp  beside  him. 

Leone  was  not  used  to  the  sight  of  suffering  and  it  completely 
unnerved  him.  He  had  looked  forward  to  the  coming  of  his 
child  with  delight,  but  he  had  never  comprehended  this  side  of 
it,  and  to  feel  that  he  could  do  nothing  for  Margherita  and  that 


The  Little  One  183 

Fauvel  apparently  would  not,  was  more  than  he  could  bear. 
The  comic  pictures  and  Fauvel  being  amused  by  them  at  such 
a  time,  made  his  blood  boil. 

"  Meurice,"  he  said  sharply,  "  must  she  suffer  like  this  for 
hours  and  hours?  " 

"  Probably." 

"  Is  there  nothing  you  can  do  for  her?  " 

"  No." 

He  paced  up  and  down  the  room  for  a  few  moments,  digging 
his  nails  into  the  palms  of  his  hands,  then  he  stopped  in  front 
of  the  couch. 

"  Are  you  sure,  Meurice,  that  you  understand  the  case  ?  It 
is  so  long  since  you've  treated  any  one  but  peasants  that  —  per- 
haps—" 

Fauvel  was  thoroughly  provoked.  He  threw  down  the  mag- 
azine, and,  standing  up,  said: 

"  Signer  Belmonte,  if  you  are  not  satisfied  with  my  services 
you  are  at  liberty  to  call  in  another  physician." 

"Oh,  Meurice,"  Leone  cried,  "forgive  me!  Don't  remind 
me  of  my  debt,  of  my  helplessness!  I  don't  mean  to  be  rude 
or  ungrateful,  only  it  makes  me  frantic  to  watch  her  suffer." 

"  Don't  watch  her,"  said  Fauvel  shortly;  "  go  downstairs  and 
read,  go  out  on  the  terrace  with  your  guitar.  I  am  right  here 
any  moment  she  wants  me,  and  with  your  permission  I  will 
make  myself  comfortable,  for  I  do  not  expect  to  go  to  my  own 
room  to-night.  Everything  is  going  well,"  he  added  more 
gently,  "  and  Margherita  has  confidence  in  me  if  you  have  not ; 
and  if  you  had  twenty  doctors  they  could  do  nothing  at  present, 
so  control  yourself,  Estori." 

When  Fauvel  called  him  by  that  name,  it  was  a  sure  sign* 
he  was  angry.  The  younger  man  looked  at  the  older  one  for  a 
second,  then  rushed  from  the  room,  and  Fauvel  thought  he 
heard  sobs  outside  in  the  corridor. 

"  What  can  I  do  for  you,  signora  ?  "  asked  Giacinta  of  Mar- 
garet, who  was  rocking  herself  back  and  forth  on  a  chair. 


184  A  Cry  of  Youth 

"  Nothing,  dear,  good,  precious  Giacinta ;  you  are  such  a 
comfort  to  me.  Do  not  mind  me,  just  let  me  alone." 

Giacinta  had  some  crocheting  in  her  hands,  for  she  was  never 
idle,  and  her  work  lay  around  always  where  she  could  pick  it 
up  at  odd  moments. 

The  big  lamps  that  Fauvel  had  ordered  Clemente  to  bring 
up  made  an  oily  smell  (they  seldom  burned  anything  but  can- 
dles in  the  bed  chambers),  and  Margaret  rose  and  went  over  to 
a  long  window  at  the  farther  end  of  the  room  and  stepped  out 
upon  a  little  stone  balcony  to  breathe  the  fresh  air. 

The  perfume  of  syringa  and  honeysuckle  came  up  from  be- 
low. What  a  superb  night  it  was!  The  stars  were  paling  in 
the  light  of  the  great  silvery  disc  that  was  rising  behind  the 
dark  mountains.  It  was  the  full  moon,  coming  to  watch  her 
fate,  and  when  a  few  hours  hence  it  would  vanish  before  Au- 
rora and  her  fiery  steeds  and  sink  down  out  of  sight  into  the 
peaceful  valley,  would  she  too  sink  down  —  into  the  "  Valley 
of  the  Shadow  of  Death  ?  "  The  moon  would  rise  again,  but 
would  she?  She  gazed  out  over  the  stretch  of  country,  whiten- 
ing as  the  moon  rose  higher;  away  over  at  the  West  lay  the 
sea,  and  beyond  it  was  —  her  home.  What  were  her  mother 
and  sister  doing,  she  wondered.  Little  they  thought  how  she 
was  spending  the  night.  She  wanted  her  mother  now,  more 
than  she  had  ever  wanted  her  before.  Josephine  had  had  their 
mother  there  when  her  children  were  born.  Well,  she  must 
not  give  in  to  morbid  thoughts,  she  was  going  to  be  brave;  but 
it  was  too  lonely  out  here  with  the  birds  and  flowers  all  asleep ; 
she  needed  human  sympathy,  some  one  to  talk  to. 

She  came  back  into  the  room.  Giacinta's  ball  of  pink 
worsted  was  rolling  on  the  floor,  her  work  had  dropped  in  her 
lap,  and  she  was  dozing  in  her  chair.  She  would  not  disturb 
her,  she  would  talk  to  Fauvel. 

The  door  between  the  rooms  was  slightly  ajar;  she  pushed  it 
open.  Fauvel  had  fallen  asleep  on  the  couch,  the  magazine  still 
in  his  hand.  She  would  let  him  rest  too;  he  was  so  kind,  so 


The  Little  One  185 

thoughtful  of  her,  that  she  would  not  be  selfish  with  him. 
Leone,  where  was  he?  He  was  her  own,  her  love,  she  needed 
him,  she  must  be  comforted.  She  stepped  out  into  the  corridor 
looking  for  him,  and  went  on  toward  the  tower  stairs.  Some 
one  was  lying  upon  the  last  step ;  as  she  tried  to  see  who  it  was 
the  light  from  the  rising  moon  broke  through  a  window  above 
and  streamed  down  in  a  silver  bar  across  the  face  she  loved. 
He  too  slept. 

She  bent  over  him.  On  his  long  curling  lashes  were  tear 
drops.  He  had  been  crying  for  her,  she  knew,  and  had  sobbed 
himself  to  sleep  like  a  child.  He  could  relieve  his  feelings  by 
giving  way  to  tears,  and  they  had  brought  him  blessed  oblivion 
—  but  she? 

The  brief  respite  was  over  and  the  pain  was  coming  on  again. 
She  leaned  against  the  wall  and  thought  of  the  contrast  be- 
tween them,  as  she  looked  at  him  in  his  calm  and  lovely  repose. 
The  beautiful  features,  purified  in  the  moonlight,  appeared 
chiseled  out  of  marble.  He  had  thrown  himself  into  a  graceful 
pose,  with  his  head  pillowed  upon  an  arm  that  rested  on  the 
step  above.  It  was  less  than  a  year  ago,  that  dream-like  night 
when  they  had  both  been  clothed  in  white  and  he  had  led  her 
up  this  tower  stair,  and  they  had  no  thought  of  anything  but 
the  ecstasy  of  being  together  once  more. 

Bodily  anguish  made  her  long  to  pray  for  herself,  but  how 
could  she  ask  anything  of  God  when  at  her  feet  lay  one  she  had 
stolen  from  His  church !  In  the  beginning  she  had  encouraged 
"  Fra  Felice  " ;  she  had  deliberately  gone  back  and  searched  on 
the  Palatine  to  find  him  a  second  time ;  and  from  there  on,  until 
they  had  met  in  the  faded  saloon  below  she  had  been  tempted 
by  his  wondrous  beauty.  But  for  her  he  would  be  now  living 
honorably  in  his  community.  No,  she  could  not  pray  for  her- 
self ;  for  him,  yes,  but  not  for  herself. 

Leone  slept  on,  unconscious  of  her  presence.  She  was  hurt 
and  wounded  that  he  could  not  keep  up  with  her  during  these 
hours.  She  was  going  to  waken  him  roughly  and  tell  him  how 


186  A  Cry  of  Youth 

selfish  he  was,  and  then  —  what  was  the  use,  she  thought,  he 
could  not  understand  why  the  birth  of  their  child  should  make 
her  unhappy,  so  how  could  he  understand  this  mixture  of  men- 
tal and  physical  agony,  both  so  intense  that  she  could  hardly 
tell  which  was  the  crueler  ? 

No,  let  him  sleep;  how  could  he  know  —  what  man  could 
ever  know!  Ah,  there  was  one  Man  who  knew,  who  long  ago 
had  spent  a  night  alone  in  a  solitary  garden  in  Palestine,  whose 
companions,  like  hers,  had  all  fallen  asleep ;  one  Man  who  was 
divine,  as  well  as  human,  who  knew  and  understood  mentally 
and  physically  every  living  creature,  who  was  compassionate, 
merciful  and  forgiving,  who  had  said :  "  Come  unto  me  all  ye 
that  travail  and  are  heavily  laden  — "  He  did  not  say,  "  Come 
unto  me  all  ye  good  people,"  or  "  all  ye  who  are  keeping  my 
commandments,"  but  He  had  said,  "  all  —  all  —  every  one  "  — 
and  raising  her  arms  toward  the  glory  from  His  heaven  that 
was  shining  down  upon  her,  she  prayed  as  she  had  done  before 
she  ever  heard  of  "  Fra  Felice,"  or  known  the  meaning  of  sor- 
row, heart-ache,  or  guilt. 

In  the  cold  gray  of  the  morning  twilight  Leone  Estori  knelt 
beside  the  great  canopied  bed  where  the  girl  he  worshipped  lay 
with  her  eyes  closed,  like  a  white  flower  that  had  been  bruised 
and  beaten  by  a  storm.  He  put  his  arms  gently  around  her  and 
whispered,  "  A  more  mio."  She  opened  her  eyes  and  whispered 
back  "  A  more" 

11  Show  her  her  son,"  said  Fauvel.  Fauvel  looked  haggard 
but  triumphant,  as  he  placed  something  wrapped  in  a  blanket 
in  Leone's  trembling  arms.  Leone  felt  a  thrill  pass  through  his 
whole  frame  as  he  touched  his  child  and  looked  into  the  tiny 
face  that  had  Margaret's  strange  little  wistful  expression ;  then 
still  trembling  for  fear  of  dropping  it,  he  held  it  down  for  her 
to  see  —  "  A  more,  thy  son,  and  mine." 

But  Margaret  turned  away  her  head  and  burst  into  a  torrent 
of  weeping.  Leone  handed  the  child  to  Giacinta,  and  tried  to 
comfort  her.  He  could  not  understand  it,  nor  could  any  one 


The  Little  One  187 

in  the  room  understand  the  English  words  that  escaped  with 
the  sobs.  "  Oh,  my  mother,  my  mother,  my  sister  —  I  can 
never  go  home  again;  oh,  mother,  mother!  " 

Her  sobs  become  more  and  more  hysterical;  her  body, 
already  worn  and  racked,  was  shaking  with  the  violence  of  her 
emotion. 

Fauvel  came  and  took  her  hand.  "  Margherita —  ma  chere 
—  mon  enfant"  he  said,  falling  into  his  native  French,  as  he 
often  did  when  speaking  to  her  alone,  "this  must  stop;  you 
must  stop  crying,  it  is  all  over  and  you  will  soon  feel  better; 
there  is  nothing  to  cry  for  now.  Stop,  stop,  ma  chere." 

"  Oh,  Signora,  cara  mia"  said  Giacinta,  "  do  not  weep.  The 
bambino  is  so  strong,  and  fair  and  perfect  as  the  day ;  "  but 
Margaret  kept  her  head  turned  away  from  them  and  cried  the 
harder.  Leone  looked  helplessly  from  her  to  the  child ;  then  to 
Fauvel.  What  was  the  matter? 

Fauvel  spoke  again :  "  Margherita,  I  shall  be  very  cross  with 
you  if  you  do  not  stop.  You  have  been  so  brave,  la  vaillante! 
You  will  injure  yourself;  you  must  keep  quiet."  But  she  was 
deaf  to  his  words  and  her  weeping  got  more  and  more  beyond 
control. 

"  Margherita,"  said  Leone  desperately,  "  have  you  no  wel- 
come for  our  son  ?  " 

Fauvel  was  perplexed.  She  seemed  absolutely  lacking  in 
motherly  instinct.  She  must  take  her  child,  she  must  be  made 
to  take  it. 

He  went  over  to  where  Giacinta  had  retreated  with  the  re- 
pulsed infant  and  was  crooning  over  it,  to  make  up  for  its 
mother's  coldness;  he  unfolded  its  blanket  and  taking  hold  of 
its  tender,  plump  arm,  gave  it  a  quick  pinch.  It  uttered  a  sharp 
little  cry  and  began  to  wail.  The  violent  sobbing  in  the  bed 
suddenly  ceased. 

"  Oh,"  Margaret  cried,  "  is  it  hurt,  the  baby?  Oh,  let  me 
see  —  let  me  see.  It  is  my  baby,  mine  —  mine  —  after  all !  " 

Fauvel  put  the  child  in  her  outstretched  arms.     She  saw  a 


188  A  Cry  of  Youth 

little  head  covered  with  soft,  dark  down,  and  below,  wee  doll- 
like  features,  and  then  she  held  it  close  in  a  tight  embrace. 
"  Ah,"  said  Fauvel,  in  a  tone  of  satisfaction,  "  I  thought  so." 
An  hour  later  there  was  complete  silence  in  the  great  state 
chamber  where  princes  and  dukes  in  their  time  had  been  born. 
Mother  and  child  had  comforted  each  other,  and  both  lay 
resting.  Giacinta  had  stolen  off  to  tell  the  news  to  the  serv- 
ants, and  Fauvel  had  gone  to  his  own  apartments  to  refresh 
himself  with  a  drip  absinthe,  while  Leone  sat  in  a  sort  of  trance 
watching  his  loved  ones.  Outside,  too,  all  was  still  in  the  hush 
of  early  dawn.  The  fresh  morning  air  blew  in  and  stirred  the 
faded  window  curtains,  then  a  wood-lark  piped  a  few  sweet 
notes  and  the  sun  rose,  brightening  the  dingy  drapery  on  the  old 
hearse-like  bed  where  Margaret  Randolph  and  her  infant  were 
sleeping. 

And  Leone  sat  on,  scarcely  daring  to  move  for  fear  of  waking 
them,  and  marveling  at  the  mystery  and  tragedy  of  birth. 


The  little  one  grew  and  thrived  and  was  so  strong  and 
healthy  that  by  the  end  of  a  year  Fauvel  called  him  "  a  hardy 
mountaineer." 

He  had  his  father's  glorious  eyes,  though  they  were  dark,  not 
golden,  and  his  mother's  white  skin.  He  had  sweet,  cherubic 
features,  with  a  lovely,  innocent  smile,  and  Leone  often  re- 
marked it,  and  spoke  of  it  to  Margaret,  that  their  child  bore  a 
striking  resemblance  to  the  little  Greek  statue  of  "  Eros  "  that 
he  had  admired  for  so  long  in  his  underground  retreat  in  the 
old  monastery  on  the  Palatine. 

Leone  had  seized  upon  Clemente  and  his  keys,  and  in  a  for- 
gotten lumber  room  he  had  come  across  what  Margaret  had 
been  wishing  for,  a  cradle.  It  was  of  ancient,  massive  design, 
gilded  in  its  day.  He  had  made  Beppo  carry  it  out  of  doors, 
take  off  what  seemed  to  be  the  dust  of  centuries,  wash  it  in 
clean  spring  water,  and  leave  it  in  the  sun  to  dry.  Giacinta 


The  Little  One  189 

found  an  old  lace  curtain  which  she  mended  and  laundered, 
then  manufactured  a  small  mattress  and  pillow,  and  the  cradle, 
freshened  in  its  old  age,  was  occupied  once  more.  Margaret 
tried  to  be  pleased,  they  had  both  taken  such  pains;  but  she 
could  not  help  contrasting  the  great  clumsy  thing  with  the 
dainty  "  bassinette  "  that  Josephine  had  had  for  little  Phil. 

Leone  idolized  the  child,  and  as  soon  as  it  was  able  to  leave 
its  mother  at  night,  he  had  the  cradle  brought  into  his  own  room 
and  the  little  one  slept  quietly  beside  him.  He  played  with  it 
and  amused  it  all  day  and  kept  it  out  of  doors  with  him,  and  the 
child  soon  learned  that  it  could  impose  on  its  father  where  its 
mother  would  not  give  in.  Margaret  was  both  proud  and 
ashamed  of  it,  always  fearful  that  some  of  their  friends  might 
find  their  way  to  the  castle  and  discover  her  with  her  child. 
On  the  other  hand,  she  longed  to  show  him  off,  for  she  had 
pride  in  his  beauty,  and  she  knew  that  he  was  far  handsomer 
than  either  of  her  sister's  children.  It  seemed  hardly  possible, 
she  thought,  that  this  lovely,  foreign-lookii.g  child  should  be 
own  cousin  to  little  flaxen-haired  Phil  and"  Alice. 

The  "  Belmontes  "  named  their  son  "  Meurice,"  after  Fauvel, 
though  they  spoke  of  him  as  the  "  bambino  "  or  "  little  one," 
and  his  father  always  called  him  "  A more,"  for  was  he  not  the 
offspring  of  his  own  love  and  the  living  image  of  the  marble 
Cupid? 

Sometimes  when  Margaret  would  ask,  "  When  is  the  child 
going  to  be  baptized  ?  "  he  would  answer  in  his  happy,  careless 
way,  "  There  is  time." 

This  was  a  source  of  distress  to  Giacinta,  and  she  often 
thought  of  secretly  carrying  the  child  down  to  the  monastery 
for  baptism;  but  its  parents  were  never  away  long  enough  for 
her  to  undertake  it. 

Often  Leone  would  sit  with  the  boy  in  his  arms  and  dream 
over  his  future.  Perhaps  he  was  destined  to  become  a  famous 
man,  why  not?  He  had  in  his  veins  the  energetic,  progressive 
blood  of  the  new  country,  mixed  with  his  own  ancient  and 


190  A  Cry  of  Youth 

noble  stock;  and  while  his  father  was  musing  thus  his  mother 
was  thinking  "  whatever  shall  we  do  with  him  when  he  grows 
up?  "  And  sometimes  when  she  had  him  all  to  herself,  the  child 
would  raise  his  great  wondering  eyes  to  hers  as  if  asking  some 
question,  and  she  would  say,  "  Don't  look  at  me  like  that, 
baby;  "  for  some  day  might  he  not  say  with  his  lips,  "  Why  was 
I  born?" 

She  was  quite  domestic  and  liked  to  learn  from  Giacinta  how 
to  make  pretty  things  for  him  out  of  odds  and  ends  of  her 
own.  At  first  he  had  been  clothed  in  swaddling  bands  as  the 
children  of  the  peasants  are,  but  when  these  were  laid  aside 
Giacinta  showed  her  how  to  make  little  kid  shoes  from  the  tops 
of  long  evening  gloves  that  were  lying  useless  in  her  big  trunk, 
and  stitch  them  together  prettily  with  colored  silks,  and  she 
became  an  expert  in  the  small  footwear  she  contrived.  But  he 
began  to  walk  earlier  than  most  children,  and  then  his  mother's 
handiwork  was  too  dainty  for  his  restless,  romping  feet.  There 
was  never  a  happier  baby  born.  He  would  scream  with  delight 
at  a  bird  or  a  butterfly,  and  try  to  catch  them,  ending  with  a 
tumble  that  never  hurt  him.  He  went  into  infantile  ecstasies 
over  the  flowers,  being  like  his  father  in  his  intensity  and  every 
day  grew  sweeter  in  his  pretty  baby  ways. 

Margaret  continued  to  write  home  cheerful,  contented  let- 
ters, and  to  inquiring  friends  her  mother  and  sister  would  reply 
that  she  had  a  delightful  position,  where  she  was  just  like  one 
of  the  family  and  was  so  happy  in  Italy  that  she  never  spoke  of 
coming  back  to  America. 

Fauvel  had  given  up  his  studio  in  Rome  and  made  his  head- 
quarters at  Perugia,  so  he  often  found  his  way  back  to  the 
castle.  He  loved  Perugia  because  there  he  said  one  could  have 
"  the  picturesque,  the  mediaeval,  and  the  ancient,  without  the 
squalor." 

His  great  picture  of  "  Youth  "  had  been  finished  and  was 
now  on  exhibition  in  Paris,  where  it  was  exciting  unusual  ad- 
miration, both  for  the  skill  of  the  artist  and  for  its  remarkable 


The  Little  One  191 

type  of  juvenile  masculine  beauty.  He  had  had  several  fine 
offers  for  it,  but  did  not  intend  to  part  with  it  until  he  had  an- 
other life-size  painting  of  Leone  ready  for  the  public  eye,  and 
he  was  considering  one  which  he  should  call  "  Springtime,"  but 
for  this  he  needed  a  female  figure  as  well.  He  had  taken  the 
other  picture,  "  A  Street  Musician,"  to  his  studio  in  Perugia, 
where  it  was  bought  for  a  fancy  price  by  an  English  nobleman. 

Leone's  time  was  not  his  own  when  Fauvel  was  at  home,  for 
there  were  long,  tedious  hours  of  sittings ;  besides,  Fauvel  liked 
him  to  go  shooting  and  to  accompany  him  on  short  tours  about 
the  country,  which  was  partly  Roman  and  partly  Etruscan,  and 
Fauvel,  who  was  something  of  an  archaeologist,  delighted  to  ex- 
plore the  little  mediaeval  mountain  towns,  and  Leone's  knowl- 
edge of  Greek  and  Latin  was  a  great  assistance  to  him  in  his 
study  of  their  ancient  inscriptions.  But  Leone  was  no  scholar 
from  choice  and  these  trips  often  bored  him.  But  on  the  whole 
he  enjoyed  the  visits  of  Fauvel,  and  to  Margaret  they  were 
like  echoes  from  the  outside  world,  in  which  they  had  no  part. 

The  only  excitement  she  had  was  occasionally  driving  to  Fos- 
sato,  which  was  a  sort  of  link  between  themselves  and  modern 
civilization,  and  she  would  watch  the  Adriatic  Express  come 
steaming  in  from  the  Capital,  and  try  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the 
tourist  passengers  to  see  what  the  styles  were  in  the  big  cities, 
and  then  watch  it  steam  off  again,  to  pierce  the  Apennines  by  a 
succession  of  tunnels  until  it  reached  the  sea.  And  when  it 
was  gone  they  would  let  the  horses  climb  the  ascent  to  the  bat- 
tlemented  old  town  and  do  what  little  shopping  the  place  of- 
fered. 

Margaret  was  naturally  graceful  and  perfectly  proportioned, 
and  had  become  decidedly  pretty.  It  was  hard  to  believe  that 
she  was  twenty-one  and  a  mother;  she  could  easily  have  passed 
for  sixteen,  and  Fauvel  told  himself  he  would  not  be  surprised 
to  see  her  a  truly  beautiful  woman  by  thirty,  if  she  kept  her 
splendid  health.  It  was  remarkable  to  him  to  find  that  she 
was  not  the  fond  mother  he  had  expected.  She  was  sweet  and 


192  A  Cry  of  Youth 

gentle  and  womanly,  but  motherhood  did  not  seem  to  touch  her 
—  she  was  still  like  a  young  girl.  While  most  careful  about 
her  child's  health  and  comfort,  keeping  him  as  fresh  as  a  rose, 
she  was  lacking  in  that  tenderness  which  most  young  mothers 
shower  upon  their  babies.  Hers  was  more  like  the  affection 
of  an  older  sister  for  a  baby  brother ;  all  the  mother-instinct  had 
apparently  passed  over  her  head  and  gone  to  Leone.  It  was  his 
father  who  idolized  and  worshipped  the  little  one,  and  who 
would  watch  him  playing  or  sleeping  with  all  a  mother's  ten- 
derness as  well  as  a  father's  pride. 

Margaret  continued  to  be  all  devotion  to  Leone,  but  when 
she  saw  him  going  off  with  Fauvel  and  the  two  men  enjoying 
each  other's  society,  she  would  often  express  the  wish  for  a  girl 
friend,  and  so  came  about  a  momentous  advent:  when  Carlotta 
Santoni  was  introduced  at  the  castle. 

Carlotta  was  the  only  child  of  the  village  postmaster,  "  Sor 
Taddeo,"  the  peasants  called  him,  out  of  profound  respect. 
She  was  educated  far  beyond  her  station.  Her  mother's  people 
were  well  off  and  they  had  never  forgiven  their  daughter  for 
running  away  and  marrying  the  handsome  Taddeo  Santoni, 
whom  they  considered  beneath  her,  as  he  was  only  a  letter  car- 
rier, while  they  owned  and  kept  a  profitable  restaurant.  But 
when  Carlotta  was  born,  late  in  the  life  of  her  parents,  her 
mother's  family  relented,  took  the  girl  to  their  own  home  in 
Perugia,  and  gave  her  many  advantages.  Her  mother  died, 
Santoni's  health  failed,  and  he  drifted  back  to  his  native  moun- 
tain hamlet  with  his  savings,  where  he  was  regarded  as  a  sort  of 
superior  personage  and  became  a  public  letter  writer,  and 
afterwards  was  made  notary  and  postmaster. 

Carlotta  had  a  pretty  voice,  and  sang  at  the  concert  halls 
and  cafes  through  Umbria;  besides,  she  was  beautiful,  with  the 
rare  beauty  of  the  Italian  blonde.  Her  hair  was  the  color  of  a 
goldfish,  her  skin  the  tint  of  a  pink  shell,  and  her  eyes  were  like 
sapphires.  In  manner  she  appeared  extremely  well  and  Mar- 
garet became  interested  in  her,  and,  longing  for  companionship 


The  Little  One  193 

of  her  own  age  and  sex,  it  ended  in  Carlotta  being  invited  to 
the  castle  to  sing;  and  Fauvel,  after  looking  around  for  some 
weeks  for  a  female  model  who  should  be  the  exact  opposite  of 
Leone  in  his  picture  of  "  Springtime,"  came  to  the  conclusion 
that  he  could  not  find  anything  better  than  the  fairness  of  Car- 
lotta as  a  foil  to  Leone.  She  was  a  little  taller  and  of  larger 
build  than  he  wanted,  and  her  features  were  a  trifle  too  heavy 
and  gave  a  suggestion  of  sensuality,  but  he  could  eliminate  that 
in  his  painting  and  idealize,  for  her  coloring  was  exquisite. 

And  so  it  was  arranged  that  she  should  stay  three  days  a 
week  at  the  castle  and  pose  with  the  young  Signor  Belmonte. 
Fauvel  asked  the  consent  of  Santoni  before  he  even  spoke  to 
Carlotta;  he  liked  the  old  man,  but  Carlotta  did  not  love  her 
father.  She  was  ashamed  of  him,  and  her  annual  visits  were 
a  great  bore  and  purely  a  matter  of  duty.  But  she  came  regu- 
larly every  summer,  for  "  papa  "  would  have  a  neat  sum  saved 
up  when  he  died,  and  if  he  thought  she  did  not  care  for  him 
the  monks  would  get  it. 

But  this  year  she  was  not  at  all  be  red,  for  reasons  best  known 
to  herself ;  she  even  considered  staying  on  through  the  autumn, 
nor  did  she  find  the  hours  spent  in  Fauvel's  studio  tedious  or 
long. 

Leone  was  provoked  that  Margaret  could  not  be  in  the  pic- 
ture with  him ;  she  was  the  fairest  creature  in  the  world  in  his 
eyes  and  it  would  be  so  beautiful  to  be  painted  together,  their 
own  love  story  put  on  canvas,  and  when  Carlotta  as  the  second 
figure  was  proposed  he  had  at  first  rebelled.  How  could  he 
pose  beside  her  in  an  attitude  of  loving  admiration,  when  he 
did  not  see  anything  in  her  to  admire? 

One  afternoon,  when  Leone  had  chosen  a  costume  of  white 
Grecian  drapery  from  among  what  he  called  his  "  theatrical 
wardrobe,"  donned  it  with  a  very  bad  grace  and  gone  to  the 
studio  to  be  excessively  bored,  Margaret  was  walking  down  a 
garden  path  reading  a  letter,  while  the  baby  toddled  in  front  of 
her.  The  letter  was  from  her  mother  and  it  told  her  that 


194  A  Cry  of  Youth 

Cousin  Cornelia  Ward  was  visiting  them  at  Josephine's  coun- 
try home  on  Long  Island,  and  that  she  had  asked  all  about 
Margaret's  position  and  friends  in  Italy,  and  really  spoke  of 
her  with  interest.  "  I  should  not  be  surprised  if  you  heard 
from  her  some  day,"  Mrs.  Randolph  wrote.  "  I  know  that 
Wallace  Grant  disapproved  of  her  dropping  you.  He  is  in 
New  York  a  great  deal  now;  Phil  sees  him  frequently,  and 
says  he  always  speaks  of  you  in  such  a  sweet,  kind  way.  Oh, 
dear  little  daughter,  what  a  pity  that  could  not  have  been  — " 
The  rest  of  the  letter  was  taken  up  with  Josephine's  children, 
and  her  week-end  parties. 

Margaret  had  been  so  intent  upon  the  letter  that  she  had 
paid  no  attention  to  the  child  and  was  startled  upon  looking  up 
to  find  that  he  had  disappeared.  A  few  yards  off  was  an 
opening  in  the  tall  boxwood  hedge  that  inclosed  the  garden 
and  she  darted  towards  it,  but  before  she  reached  it  there  was 
a  little  frightened  cry,  and  the  child  came  hurrying  back,  tum- 
bling down  in  his  eagerness  to  get  to  her.  She  picked  him  up, 
stood  him  upon  his  feet  to  make  sure  he  was  unhurt,  then 
looked  through  the  opening  to  see  what  could  have  startled  him. 
She  could  have  screamed  herself.  Crouching  behind  the  bushes 
was  a  creature  more  like  a  beast  than  a  man.  His  head  was 
abnormally  large,  with  a  monstrous  jaw,  small  black  beady 
eyes  and  a  long  tangled  beard  that  reached  nearly  to  his  knees. 
His  ears  stuck  out  like  great  sounding-boards,  and  his  face 
was  covered  with  hairy  warts.  He  was  a  dwarf,  no  larger 
than  a  child  of  ten  or  twelve  years,  his  shoulders  were  broad 
and  his  arms  appeared  powerful,  but  his  legs  were  short,  with 
large  flat  feet  upon  which  he  wore  "  the  cioce,"  or  rags  bound 
with  thongs.  He  carried  an  implement  that  resembled  a 
miner's  pick  and  his  clothing  was  made  of  goat  skins.  He 
straightened  himself  upon  seeing  Margaret  and  pulled  off  his 
shaggy  cap. 

"  Who  are  you,"  she  asked  quickly,  "  and  what  do  you  want 
here?" 


The  Little  One  195 

"  Gentilissima  signora,"  he  began,  "  good  and  gracious  lady, 
esteemed  and  generous — " 

"  That  will  do,"  said  Margaret,  who  had  learned  to  check 
the  palaver  of  the  peasants,  "  tell  me  what  you  want!  " 

"  Esteemed  signora,  with  your  noble  permission  I  would  like 
to  enter." 

"  Whom  do  you  want  to  see?  "  she  asked. 

"  No  one;  I  only  want  to  come  in." 

"  But  this  is  private  property  — " 

"  There  are  many  openings,  eccelenza." 

"  Yes,  the  walls  are  broken  through  in  many  places  and  the 
courtyard  gate  is  never  closed.  The  padrone  is  very  kind 
about  giving  permission  to  those  who  come  and  ask  to  see  the 
castle  and  the  grounds;  that  is  a  different  matter.  Have  you 
not  seen  the  signs, '  No  trespassing  '?  " 

11  Alas,  Signora,  I  cannot  read." 

"  And  this  hedge  incloses  our  own  private  garden  and  in  all 
the  time  I  have  lived  here  you  are  the  only  one  who  has  ever 
attempted  to  enter,  and,"  she  added,  "  you  have  frightened  my 
baby,"  for  the  little  one  had  come  up  to  her  and  was  hiding  his 
face  in  her  dress. 

"  Ah,  what  a  beautiful  bambino,  what  a  little  angel!  " 

Margaret  lifted  the  baby  in  her  arms.  "  You  must  go  now," 
she  said;  "  if  there  was  any  good  reason  for  your  coming  you 
would  have  gone  around  to  the  courtyard  and  rung  the  bell," 
and  grasping  the  child  tightly,  she  turned  away.  But  the 
dwarf  followed  her,  and  touched  her  arm  with  his  dirty  horny 
hand. 

"  Signora,"  he  whispered,  "  I  come  honestly.  I  will  swear  it 
by  the  Madonna.  Ah,  you  who  are  rich  and  beautiful,  have 
pity  on  a  poor  wretch  who  is  only  trying  to  make  a  few  soldi  * 
to  buy  bread  to  live  upon.  Senta,  signora,  listen;  do  not  turn 
from  me.  I  ask  only  to  be  permitted  to  dig  for  some  medicinal 
plants  which  I  know  I  can  find  here.  See,  eccelenza " —  he 

*  Coppers. 


196  A  Cry  of  Youth 


opened  a  canvas  sack  that  was  strung  across  his  shoulder  and 
displayed  some  wilted  weeds  —  "I  dig  for  certain  herbs  which 
I  understand,  and  sell  them  to  the  apothecaries;  it  is  the  only 
way  I  have  to  make  a  living,  for  poor  Ferruccio  is  so  ugly  no 
one  will  employ  him;  per  I'amore  di  Dio  permit  me  to  stay!  " 

"  But,"  said  Margaret,  "  there  are  no  herbs  here  in  the  gar- 
den." 

"  The  Signora  is  right,  but  over  therj,  away  over  by  the 
walls,  the  wild  cucumber  and  henbane,  and  caper  plant  are  to 
be  found,  near  old  stones.  Does  the  Signora  permit  me  to 
go?" 

"  Well,"  she  said  hesitatingly,  for  a  story  of  poverty  and 
distress  always  touched  her,  "  I  suppose  so.  The  padrone  is 
busy  indoors,  and  never  likes  to  be  disturbed  at  these  times,  or 
I  would  ask  him  for  you ;  but  I  do  not  think  he  will  have  any 
objection,"  and  as  she  got  a  better  look  at  the  grotesque  creature 
it  seemed  to  her  that  he  had  an  honest,  harmless  expression. 
And  he,  thanking  her  profusely,  limped  off  in  the  direction  of 
the  ruins. 

"  Precious  lamb,"  said  Margaret  to  the  baby,  "  I  don't  won- 
der you  were  frightened.  He  is  gone  now  "  —  for  the  little 
one  had  buried  his  face  in  her  neck  and  would  not  look  up. 
He  was  naturally  very  shy,  as  he  rarely  saw  any  one  but  their 
own  household.  "  He  is  gone,  A  more  sweet,  and  mother  will 
not  let  the  dirty  man  touch  her  precious  baby,  never  fear,"  and 
she  gazed  with  delight  into  the  little  frightened  face  that  met 
hers,  which  looked  lovelier  than  ever  after  that  of  the  dwarf. 
Then  she  hugged  him  closer  to  her  and  kissed  him,  and  releas- 
ing him,  let  him  play  and  pull  all  the  flowers  he  wanted,  and 
when  he  was  tired  she  took  him  to  the  fountain  to  splash  his 
little  hands  in  the  low  basin  where  the  water  overflowed  from 
the  ancient  sarcophagus  above. 

But  Margaret  was  not  quite  at  ease  about  the  odd  creature 
who  called  himself  "  Ferruccio  " ;  she  was  not  sure  whether 
Fauvel  would  approve  of  what  she  had  done  and  was  relieved 


The  Little  One  197 

at  dinner,  when  she  told  of  her  adventure,  that  he  did  not  deem 
it  of  enough  importance  to  make  any  comment.  He  had  run 
across  numerous  hideous  deformities  in  the  mountain  villages, 
he  said,  and  the  specimens  mentioned  were  apt  to  grow  about 
old  stones  as  this  poor  wretch  claimed.  Then  the  subject  was 
dropped  and  no  more  was  thought  of  the  incident. 


CHAPTER   XVIII 

"  THE  EVIL  EYE  " 

Be  thou  a  spirit  of  health,  or  goblin  damned, 

Bring  with   thee   airs   from   Heaven,   or  blasts  from   Hell, 

Be  thy  intents  wicked,  or  charitable  — 

...  I  will  speak  with  thee. 

HAMLET 

About  a  week  later  Leone,  Margaret  and  Carlotta  were 
walking  together  just  at  sunset;  they  had  wandered  around  by 
the  ruins  and  had  paused  to  look  at  the  old  well.  There  was 
a  big  block  of  stone,  which  for  years  had  remained  balanced 
halfway  over  the  edge  of  the  circular  opening,  and  Leone  was 
saying  he  would  like  to  push  it  in  and  listen  how  far  they  could 
hear  it  go  down. 

"  Yes,  do  it,  Signore;  it  will  be  fun  to  scare  the  fishes,"  urged 
Carlotta.  But  Margaret  objected:  "It  is  fearfully  heavy, 
Leone,"  she  said ;  "  you  will  strain  yourself ;  do  not  attempt  it." 
Just  then  they  heard  close  to  them  a  noise  like  blows  of  a 
hammer.  They  stopped  talking  and  listened.  In  a  moment 
the  sound  was  repeated. 

"  Some  one  must  be  around  the  other  side  of  the  tower," 
said  Leone;  "  let  us  go  and  see;  walk  softly." 

The  path  was  so  overgrown  that  their  footsteps  made  no 
sound  and  as  they  turned  the  corner  they  perceived  a  creature 
on  his  knees,  trying  to  pull  out  a  loose  stone  from  the  base  of 
the  wall ;  beside  him,  with  one  point  stuck  in  the  ground,  was  a 
pick  axe  and  a  spade  lay  near  by.  Margaret  recognized  him 
at  once,  the  enormous  head,  the  shaggy  goatskin  clothes  and 
the  short  legs.  She  clutched  Leone's  arm.  "  It  is  he  —  the 
dwarf,"  she  said ;  "  I  told  you  he  followed  me  into  the  garden 
a  week  ago  when  baby  and  I  were  alone — " 

He  had  evidently  attacked  the  wall  with  his  pick  and  had 
loosened  the  stone,  but  his  arms  were  not  strong  enough  to  dis- 

198 


"The  Evil  Eye"  199 

place  it,  so  he  turned  to  take  up  the  implement  again  to  give  it 
another  blow. 

"  Holaf "  cried  Leone  indignantly.  "  What  do  you  do 
there?" 

The  creature  jumped  at  being  suddenly  surprised,  then  col- 
lected himself  and  recognizing  Margaret  began  to  bow  obsequi- 
ously. "  Ah,  gentle  ladies,  and  you,  Signore,  poor  Ferruccio 
humbly  salutes  you." 

Carlotta  gave  a  scream,  and  Leone  actually  started  at  the 
hideous  countenance  that  faced  them. 

"  Answer  my  question,"  said  Leone:  "  what  are  you  doing?  " 

"  Pardon,  noble  Signore,  the  gentle  and  beautiful  Signora  has 
given  me  permission  to  come  here.  Is  it  not  true?  "  he  added 
appealingly  to  Margaret. 

"  I  said  you  might  stay  the  other  day,"  she  replied,  "  but  I 
did  not  expect  you  to  come  again;  and  then  you  asked  to  be 
allowed  to  dig  for  herbs." 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  do  the  same  to-day  — " 

"  That's  a  lie !  "  cried  Leone.  "  You  are  trying  to  break  in 
a  wall." 

"  Esteemed  Signore,  I  search  for  a  tiny  plant  that  takes  root 
between  the  stones.  It  is  valued  by  the  apothecaries  —  I  sell 
it  to  them  —  the  Signora  will  explain ;  I  had  permission." 

"  Be  off,"  he  said  roughly,  "  you  had  no  permission  to  injure 
property.  Be  off,  and  do  not  return." 

The  dwarf  reluctantly  picked  up  his  things,  making  a  great 
point  of  putting  into  his  sack  some  plants  and  roots  that  were 
lying  on  the  ground,  then  Leone  pointed  imperatively  to  him  to 
go,  and  he  slunk  away,  disappearing  through  some  shrubbery 
that  had  grown  up  between  a  space  of  the  disconnected  wall 
that  enclosed  the  grounds. 

"What  a  horrible  creature,"  said  Carlotta,  shuddering;  "he 
makes  me  quite  faint.  He  has  the  '  evil  eye  ' ;  some  misfortune 
will  happen,"  and  she  crossed  herself. 

"  You  are  right,  Signorina,"  said  Leone  soberly;  "  he  is  surely 


200  A  Cry  of  Youth 

the  jettatura  —  ah,  Dio  mlo!  Something  bad  will  happen," 
and  he  fixed  his  left  hand  into  a  pair  of  horns,  by  putting  out 
his  first  and  little  fingers,  while  holding  tightly  the  second  and 
third  in  the  palm  with  his  thumb,  a  gesture  that  is  supposed  to 
ward  off  disastrous  consequences.  Carlotta  did  likewise. 

Margaret  was  astonished ;  not  at  Carlotta  who  was  flighty 
and  belonged  to  the  people,  but  that  Leone,  with  his  education 
and  birth,  should  be  so  foolishly  superstitious  she  would  not  have 
believed.  She  regarded  them  rather  scornfully. 

"  How  absurd  you  are !  "  she  said.  "  He  is  only  a  poor  de- 
formed peasant  whom  fate  has  been  hard  upon.  I  am  sorry 
for  him." 

"  I  am  not,"  said  Carlotta ;  "  he  frightens  me  to  death.  Soul 
of  my  mother!  I  am  ill;  let  us  go  to  the  house,  I  must  have 
some  wine.  Did  you  not  see  the  look  he  cast  at  us,  Signora? 
Ah,  misericordia,  evil  follows  us!  They  tell  strange  stories 
in  the  village  about  the  ruins  of  Rocca  Serrata.  Come,  let  us 
get  away  from  here,"  and  she  took  Leone's  arm  and  tried  to 
make  him  run  with  her. 

"  Come,"  he  said,  holding  out  his  hand  to  Margaret. 

But  she  did  not  stir.  "  This  is  sheer  nonsense,"  she  declared; 
"  there  is  no  occasion  to  hurry,  I  shall  not  be  so  silly." 

"  Margherita,  come !  "  said  Leone.  Carlotta  was  still  pull- 
ing at  his  arm.  "  Come  with  me,  I  say,"  and  there  was  a 
touch  of  authority  in  his  voice.  It  was  the  first  time  he  had 
ever  used  such  a  tone  to  her.  She  resented  it  and  drew  back. 

"  I  shall  not,"  she  said  flatly,  and,  turning  round,  began  to 
walk  towards  the  tower. 

He  disengaged  himself  from  Carlotta's  grasp  and  followed 
her.  "  Margherita,"  he  said  firmly,  "  why  do  you  not  do  as  I 
tell  you?" 

"  Because  I  am  an  American  and  I  don't  believe  in  such 
idiocy!" 

He  flushed  angrily;  then  said  coldly:  "Wives  should  obey 
their  husbands." 


" 'The  Evil  Eye"  201 

"  I  am  not  your  wife." 

"  Oh,  Margherita !  "  he  cried.     "  Margherita !  " 

"  Well,  I  will  not  be  spoken  to  like  that  when  I  know  that 
I  am  right." 

"  Are  you  coming?  "  called  out  Carlotta  nervously. 

"  I  wait  for  the  Signora,"  he  called  back ;  "  go  on,  we  will 
follow;  "  then  turning  to  Margaret:  "  Why  do  you  wound  me 
with  such  words?  Forgive  me  if  I  was  rude,  cara  mia,  but  I 
understand  this  thing  better  than  you.  There  is  no  doubt  but 
that  some  people  work  us  evil.  Intuition  tells  me  this  dwarf 
will,  it  tells  the  same  to  Carlotta.  I  cannot  explain  it,  but  it 
is  a  fact  that  has  been  proven  over  and  over  again,  that  trouble 
comes  whenever  the  '  evil  eye  '  appears." 

"  Leone,"  she  said,  softening,  "  I  did  not  mean  to  hurt  you, 
but  I  lost  patience,  for  at  home  only  common,  ignorant  people 
believe  in  such  stuff.  I  will  come  now,  not  because  you  or- 
dered me,"  she  added,  smiling,  "  but  because  I  love  you  —  you 
foolish  boy !  " 

And  Carlotta,  glancing  back,  saw  Signor  Belmonte  take  his 
Signora,  who  had  defied  him,  in  his  arms  and  kiss  her. 

"  He  ought  to  slap  her,"  she  muttered  to  herself,  and  at  the 
first  opportunity  that  presented  she  teased  him  for  being  bullied 
by  his  American  wife. 

When  they  reported  to  Fauvel  that  the  dwarf  had  trespassed 
again  he  said  he  would  make  inquiries  about  him  in  the  neigh- 
boring towns;  he  was  quite  sure  he  was  not  known  in  their 
own  village.  "  I  will  not  answer  for  his  life,  if  he  goes  bat- 
tering about  the  north  tower;  the  stones  drop  continually  and 
one  could  easily  be  killed.  If  he  is  seen  here  again  bring  him 
to  me,  I  will  interview  him."  But  later,  when  the  two  men 
were  alone,  Fauvel  said :  "  An  idea  has  occurred  to  me  con- 
cerning this  dwarf,  which  I  do  not  think  wise  to  mention  before 
the  women.  I  do  not  believe  the  fellow  is  after  roots  at  all. 
The  ordinary  peasant  who  digs  for  roots  does  not  carry  a 
spade  and  pick  axe ;  a  small  sharp  knife  and  trowel  are  all  they 


202  A  Cry  of  Youth 

require.  There  may  be  some  significance  in  his  hanging  around 
the  ruins,  but  I  do  not  "wish  a  word  of  what  I  say  repeated,  it 
would  alarm  the  household,  and  at  best  it  is  only  a  surmise." 

"  I  am  a  tomb  of  silence,  Meurice ;  go  on." 

"  It  may  be  possible  that  he  is  trying  to  get  inside  the  house, 
and  his  digging  is  only  a  blind." 

"  But  all  he  has  to  do  is  to  walk  in,"  said  Leone ;  "  at  this 
season  every  door  is  open,  he  could  watch  his  chance  and  slip 
in  without  ever  being  noticed.  Do  you  think  he  means  to 
steal?" 

"  No,  not  ordinary  thieving,  and  it  does  not  suit  his  purpose 
to  enter  the  house  in  the  ordinary  way." 

"  What  can  you  mean?     You  have  me  all  curiosity." 

"  I  may  as  well  tell  you  everything  about  Rocca  Serrata,  since 
you  are  to  inherit  it  in  case  I  die  before  you  do." 

"  Meurice,  I  wish  you  would  not  speak  of  that  — " 

"  Stop,"  said  Fauvel,  putting  up  his  hand ;  "  that  is  all  set- 
tled ;  now  listen.  Near  where  you  discovered  the  dwarf  to-day 
is  an  entrance  to  a  secret  passage  leading  to  an  apartment  clev- 
erly hidden  in  the  thickness  of  the  walls.  I  have  heard  that 
these  Umbrian  peasants  are  very  wonderful  about  their  an- 
cestry. They  can  date  back  as  far  as  some  of  the  most  ancient 
nobility.  They  know  the  traditions  of  the  family  in  which 
they  live,  and  they  pass  them  down  from  father  to  son.  Now 
it  is  possible  that  the  ancestors  of  this  dwarf  may  once  have 
been  employed  here,  knew  of  the  secret  apartment  and  that 
something  valuable  was  hidden  there;  that  the  story  has  been 
told  to  the  dwarf,  who  believes  the  treasure  is  still  here  and 
has  come  for  it.  He  may  be  a  mason  by  trade  and  trying  to 
locate  the  passage  by  removing  the  outer  stones  to  make  sound- 
ings for  hollow  places;  in  its  ruinous  state  this  would  not  be 
difficult ;  then  he  means  to  break  through,  find  the  room  where 
the  supposed  or  actual  treasure  is,  and  carry  it  off  through  the 
secret  passage." 

"  It  sounds  like  a  yellow  paper  novel,  Meurice.     I  would 


"The  Evil  Eye"  203 

never  give  such  an  idea  a  moment's  consideration  if  any  one  but 
yourself  had  suggested  it.  But  you  are  usually  right  in  your 
deductions.  Why  not  have  the  fellow  arrested  at  once  ?  " 

"  How  can   I  ?     I  have  no  charge.     I   may  be  altogether 
wrong." 
.     "  How  did  you  know  about  this  passage?  " 

"  My  poor  friend  Gastonet  gathered  as  much  while  looking 
over  the  archives  which  are  in  Fossato,  when  he  bought  the 
property.  Gastonet  was  an  architect,  you  know,  and  made  a 
special  study  of  old  castles  and  fortresses  and  he  located  and  dis- 
covered the  passage." 

"Where  is  it?" 

"  In  the  north  wing.  When  Gastonet  first  bought  this  place 
he  had  a  raft  of  workmen  here,  for  it  was  necessary  to 
strengthen  floors,  beam  ceilings,  and  plaster  and  fix  up  gener- 
ally to  make  it  fit  to  live  in;  but  it  would  have  cost  a  fortune 
to  renovate  that  part,  and  in  fact  the  expert  we  had  here  con- 
demned it,  so  the  communications  between  it  and  the  livable 
portions  of  the  house  were  bricked  up." 

"  So  the  passage  was  closed  too?  " 

"  No,  but  now  in  order  to  reach  those  apartments  where  the 
concealed  entrance  to  the  passage  begins,  one  must  go  down 
through  the  vaults  and  then  ascend  by  a  spiral  way  that  leads 
from  the  bottom  to  the  top  of  the  house,  opening  finally  on  the 
battlements." 

"  Did  you  and  Gastonet  go  through  the  passage?  " 

"  Yes." 

"Did  you  find  anything  there?" 

"  Yes." 

"What?" 

"  Understand,"  said  Fauvel,  lowering  his  voice,  "  I  do  not 
wish  one  word  of  this  repeated,  not  even  to  Margherita.  I 
will  not  have  unpleasant  stories  circulated,  but  I  think  it  best 
for  you  to  know  in  case  anything  regarding  it  should  come  up 
in  future." 


204  A  Cry  of  Youth 

11 1  assure  you,  Meurice,  I  shall  not  mention  it.  Tell  me 
everything.  I  can  keep  my  own  counsel.  It  is  part  of  the 
monastic  training,  you  know,  to  listen  to  all  and  to  divulge 
nothing." 

"  Yes,  I  know  you  are  very  close-mouthed,  and  it  is  an  ex- 
cellent trait.  I  had  not  considered  it  worth  while  until  to-day 
to  make  you  acquainted  with  this  matter;  but  the  appearance 
of  the  dwarf  and  his  predilection  for  the  ruins  have  started  a 
whole  train  of  thought.  When  Gastonet  and  I  went  through 
the  passage  by  ourselves  we  discovered  the  skeleton  of  a  young 
woman." 

"  Meurice !  "  Leone  paled  and  his  eyes  showed  his  horror. 
"  How  terrible!  Who  was  she?  " 

"  There  was  nothing  to  indicate  who  she  was,  except  upon 
her  arm  a  bracelet  in  the  form  of  a  serpent,  with  an  emerald 
sunk  in  its  head  and  inside  engraved  '  Lorina.'  " 

"  What  did  you  do  with  her  —  poor  thing?  " 

"We  gave  her  decent  burial.  No  one  saw  or  knew;  we 
took  good  care  of  that.  She  was  quite  young,  w£  could  tell  by 
her  teeth,  which  were  perfect  and  beautiful,  also  from  the  looks 
of  the  small  bones.  Judging  from  these  and  the  shreds  of 
clothing,  she  must  have  been  dead  about  fifty  years." 

"  Could  you  find  out  nothing  more?  " 

"  Not  much ;  the  castle  had  changed  hands  in  rapid  succes- 
sion at  that  period,  being  thrown  back  and  forth  for  gambling 
debts  by  a  notorious  set  of  young  reckless  Venetians,  who  took 
good  care  that  little  of  what  went  on  here  should  be  known 
beyond  the  castle  walls,  and  from  the  vague  bits  that  are  to  be 
learned  one  of  them  was  accused  of  murdering  his  mistress, 
though  it  was  never  proved.  For  my  part,  I  do  not  believe 
the  woman  was  murdered ;  we  found  her  lying  as  if  asleep ;  she 
had  probably  hurried  there  to  hide  from  some  one  and  died  of 
heart  failure." 

"  It's  not  a  pretty  tale,"  said  Leone  thoughtfully,  "  and  the 
old  dwarf—" 


"The  Evil  Eye"  205 

"  May  be  a  link  in  it." 

"I  knew  he  was  a  thing  of  evil!  Meurice,  show  me  this 
place,  will  you,  to-morrow  i  " 

"  To-night  is  as  good  as  to-morrow,"  said  Fauvel,  "  and  I 
need  all  the  daylight  to  work  in."  He  took  out  his  watch. 
"  It  is  early  yet,  and  day  and  night  are  the  same  in  the  vaults 
and  passages." 

"  Stop  a  moment ;  you  said  it  was  unsafe  ?  " 

"  It  is  in  one  sense,  unsafe  for  constant  use  or  for  a  number 
at  a  time.  Gastonet  expected  to  entertain  here  a  great  deal, 
and  guests  love  to  explore,  so  to  avoid  risks  he  had  it  walled 
up.  But  for  you  or  me,  neither  of  us  heavyweights,  I  do  not 
consider  there  is  any  danger  and  I  would  like  to  show  you  the 
vaults.  One  could  play  hide-and-seek  there  for  weeks,  they 
are  wonderful,  they  will  endure  to  the  end  of  time.  If  you 
like  we  will  go  now.  It  is  bright  moonlight  and  we  can  get  a 
good  look  at  the  handsome  old  rooms  in  the  north  wing.  Do 
you  care  to  come  ?  " 

"  Of  course  I  do;  does  Clemente  know  of  this  passage?  " 

"  No ;  no  one  but  myself,  now  that  poor  Gastonet  is  dead. 
I  keep  the  keys  to  the  iron  door  of  the  vaults  and  to  the  door  in 
the  ruined  tower.  I  will  go  and  get  them  while  you  ring  for 
Beppo ;  tell  him  to  bring  two  lanterns  and  be  sure  they  are  full, 
and  look  about  for  my  electric  pocket  lamp,  will  you?  It's 
in  the  cedar  room;  I  was  amusing  your  son  with  it  before 
dinner." 

Margaret  had  been  asleep  for  some  time  when  she  was  awak- 
ened by  the  baby's  crying.  She  waited  a  moment,  expecting 
his  father  to  speak  to  him,  as  he  slept  in  the  cradle  close  to 
Leone's  bed,  but  no  sound  came  from  the  other  room  except  the 
little  wakeful  whimper.  The  child  was  cutting  his  double 
teeth  and  it  made  him  restless.  She  rose  and  went  in  to  him 
with  a  candle  in  her  hand,  which  she  placed  on  a  night  table 
while  she  turned  his  pillow  and  tried  to  comfort  him. 

Leone's  bed  was  undisturbed;  where  in  the  world  could  he 


206  A  Cry  of  Youth 

be,  and  the  clock  forty  minutes  past  midnight!  At  that  moment 
he  opened  the  door.  He  was  covered  with  dust  and  cobwebs 
and  his  face  and  hands  were  grimy. 

"  Mercy!  "  she  exclaimed,  "  where  have  you  been?  " 

But  he  did  not  answer  and  came  directly  over  to  the  cradle. 

"  Don't  come  near  baby  looking  like  that,"  she  cried,  waving 
him  back ;  "  you  must  be  covered  with  germs." 

"  Is  anything  the  matter  with  him  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  No,  I  think  not,  he's  only  wakeful." 

"  I  will  walk  with  him,  then  he  goes  to  sleep." 

"  No,  you  must  not,"  she  declared.  "  You  spoil  him  dread- 
fully; besides,  you  are  too  dirty  to  touch  him,"  looking  from  the 
spotless  child  to  its  begrimed  father. 

"  What  a  fuss  you  make  about  a  little  dirt,"  he  said,  rather 
pettishly.  "  The  United  States  must  be  full  of  awful  germs 
since  you  are  so  afraid  of  them.  You  go  into  a  fit  over  a  little 
harmless  dust." 

"The  United  States  are  very  clean,"  she  retorted;  "far 
cleaner  than  Italy,  and  we  never  allow  anything  but  what  is 
clean  and  sanitary  to  come  near  children.  Look  at  yourself, 
you're  a  sight ! "  pointing  to  his  reflection  in  the  mirror. 
"  Wherever  have  you  been  ?  " 

"  Meurice  and  I  went  down  into  the  vaults;  he  was  showing 
them  to  me,"  he  answered.  "  Yes,  bambino  mio,"  he  called  to 
the  fretting  child,  "  thy  father  comes  to  thee  in  three  minutes," 
throwing  off  his  coat  and  rolling  up  his  shirt  sleeves,  "  thy 
mother  would  rather  hear  thee  cry  than  have  one  speck  harm- 
less dust  touch  thee.  'One  comes  to  thee." 

The  child  had  learned  to  say  one  word:  it's  father's  name, 
with  the  "  Le  "  unpronounced. 

"  How  can  you  be  so  cold-hearted?"  he  said  to  Margaret, 
who  was  trying  to  soothe  the  boy  in  his  cradle.  "  Why  don't 
you  take  him  up?  Meurice  says  a  baby's  second  summer  is  its 
hardest  time." 

"  But  he  is  not  ill  and  I  don't  believe  in  giving  in  to  him," 


"The  Evil  Eye"  207 

she  answered.  Leone  dashed  down  the  towel  and  pushing  her 
away  took  up  the  child  and  began  to  patrol  the  room. 

"  You  will  have  him  so  spoiled,"  Margaret  said,  "  that  there 
will  be  no  living  with  him  when  he  is  a  little  older;  "  then  she 
went  back  into  her  own  room,  giving  the  door  a  slight  slam. 

It  was  not  long  before  it  was  opened  and  Leone  came  over 
to  her  bed  on  tiptoe.  "  Do  you  sleep,  Margherita?  "  he  asked 
softly. 

"  No,"  she  answered ;  "  you  sing  your  lullabys  so  loud  you 
keep  me  awake." 

"  But  he  goes  to  sleep,  the  little  one ;  I  can  put  him  to  sleep 
always  when  you  cannot." 

"  You  never  give  me  a  chance,"  she  said  resentfully ;  "  you 
took  him  away  from  me.  He  is  all  your  child,  not  mine  at  all. 
I  had  nothing  to  do  with  him,  did  I?  " 

"  Ah,  Sposina  mia"  he  cried,  "  thou  didst  give  him  to  me  — 
can  I  ever  forget  that?  But  listen  to  me,  Amore,  dost  remem- 
ber what  I  said  to  thee  about  that  ugly  dwarf,  that  he  will 
bring  evil?  He  has  brought  it  already;  we  have  quarrelled 
twice  to-day  —  the  first  time!  " 

"  It  shall  be  the  first  and  the  last,  Leone,  dearest,"  she  said 
sweetly,  "  only  it  provokes  me  to  see  you  superstitious  and  to 
have  you  entirely  spoil  the  child,  and  I  suppose  I  was  cross  and 
sleepy;  I  waited  up  a  long  time  for  you." 

"  I  did  not  expect  to  be  gone  so  long,"  he  said.  "  Meurice 
and  I  were  talking,  and  the  subject  of  the  vaults  came  up,  and 
—  well,  there  was  nothing  particular  to  do — " 

"  That's  just  it,"  she  said,  "  there  never  is  anything  to  do 
here.  One  day  is  exactly  the  same  as  the  other.  I  long  to 
meet  strangers  and  see  people,  don't  you  ?  —  and  get  new  ideas, 
or  hear  some  good  music,  or  go  to  a  dance.  Oh,  what  would  it 
be  like  to  have  a  lovely  new  gown  and  go  to  a  dance !  " 

"  I  would  not  like  to  see  thee  at  a  dance,  Margherita ;  thou 
wouldst  have  too  many  partners  and  they  would  take  thee  from 
me." 


208  A  Cry  of  Youth 


"  But  you  would  have  partners,  too,  and  you  would  love  it," 
she  declared.  "  Only  think  of  all  those  great  saloons  down- 
stairs, empty,  empty  all  the  time.  What  a  ball  we  might  give 
if  there  were  only  some  people  to  invite !  " 

"  I  do  not  long  for  other  people,"  he  said  soberly;  "  I  have 
all  I  want  with  thee  and  the  little  one  and  Meurice.  Art  thou 
tired  of  us,  Margherita?  " 

"  Ah,  no,  no !  "  she  cried,  and  she  threw  her  arms  around 
his  neck. 

The  Belmontes  were  not  the  only  ones  who  sat  up  late  that 
night,  as  Clemente  knew  when  he  made  his  rounds  the  next 
morning  to  fill  the  lamps  and  replenish  the  candles.  There 
was  some  excuse  for  them,  with  a  teething  bambino,  and  for 
the  padrone  of  course,  if  he  chose.  But  what  right  had  that 
red-haired  minx,  Santoni's  Carlotta,  to  burn  oil  as  if  she  were 
a  grand  lady,  wasting  household  supplies  and  giving  him  extra 
trouble  ? 

When  Margaret  had  gone  upstairs  early  the  evening  before 
Carlotta  had  pretended  to  be  so  engrossed  in  her  novel  that  she 
did  not  notice  her  leaving.  She  had  remained  in  the  hope  of 
having  a  little  talk  with  the  young  Signore  or  that  the  Pro- 
fessore  Artista  would  ask  her  to  sing.  But  when  Fauvel  had 
come  indoors  after  his  smoke,  accompanied  by  Signer  Leone,  he 
had  gone  directly  upstairs  while  the  latter  rang  for  Beppo  and 
gave  him  some  order  she  could  not  hear,  and  presently  Fauvel 
had  come  down  and  they  had  both  gone  out  again.  She  had 
followed  them  as  far  as  the  courtyard,  and  had  seen  them  each 
take  a  lantern  from  the  waiting  stable  boy,  but  she  could  go  no 
farther  for  fear  of  being  detected  in  the  bright  moonlight,  and 
of  turning  her  ankle  on  the  rough  flagstones,  in  her  thin,  high- 
heeled  slippers. 

How  did  she  ever  exist,  she  wondered,  before  she  had  seen 
and  known  Leone  Belmonte  and  experienced  this  novelty  of 
being  received  in  his  home  almost  as  an  equal?  So  gorgeously 
handsome  he  was,  so  graceful,  so  unusual,  but  oh,  so  absurdly 


"The  Evil  Eye"  209 

wrapped  up  in  that  fat  baby  and  so  hopelessly  in  love  with  that 
small,  plain-looking  Signora,  his  wife,  "  Little,  ordinary,  dark- 
haired  thing,"  she  said  to  herself,  "  what  can  he  possibly  see 
in  her?" 

But  even  as  she  used  the  adjective  she  knew  that  "  ordinary  " 
did  not  apply.  She  felt  that  the  "  Americana  "  was  an  extraor- 
dinary young  woman,  though  she  could  not  tell  wherein  her 
attraction  lay.  How  did  she  manage  to  hold  her  handsome  hus- 
band even  after  she  had  borne  him  a  son,  so  that  he  gave  her 
the  strictest  and  most  unquestionable  fidelity?  He  had  never 
had  an  affair  with  any  of  the  village  beauties,  had  not  even 
been  seen  to  as  much  as  throw  a  kiss  to  any  of  them,  and  not 
one  of  them  could  say  that  he  had  ever  cast  an  admiring  glance 
in  her  direction.  Yes,  the  Signora  possessed  some  unusual  at- 
traction which  was  felt  rather  than  seen,  and  Carlotta  had  sat 
up,  burning  the  candles,  pondering  how  she  could  compete 
with  her. 

She  had  fallen  in  love  with  Belmonte,  and  the  question  was, 
why  did  he  not  return  it  ? 

She  was  used  to  admiration  and  attention.  The  average 
man  was  attracted  at  a  glance,  and  Belmonte  was  the  very  one 
who  should  go  mad  over  her  golden  hair,  her  blue  eyes,  and  her 
fair  pink  skin,  since  he  was  so  entirely  her  opposite.  She,  an 
acknowledged  beauty,  who  had  been  chosen  by  a  celebrated 
artist  to  be  a  foil  to  his  own  good  looks!  But  Belmonte  took 
no  notice  of  her  except  to  be  polite,  and  his  indifference  had 
increased  her  desire  for  conquest.  How  could  she  win  him? 
Her  beauty  was  ignored,  and  apparently  she  could  not  charm 
him  with  her  voice.  What  was  it,  what  was  it?  she  kept  ask- 
ing herself,  as  the  candles  burned  low,  and  from  down  the 
corridor  came  the  plaintive  crying  of  the  bambino  Bel- 
monte. 

The  American  had  no  beauty  and  no  voice  and  yet  she  at- 
tracted these  two  men,  one  so  handsome  and  the  other  so  criti- 
cal. She  did  not  have  to  tax  her  brain  to  make  conversation; 


210  A  Cry  of  Youth 

what  she  said  came  naturally,  as  she  sat  still  with  her  pretty 
little  hands  folded  and  did  nothing. 

It  was  very  hard  for  Carlotta  to  compose  herself;  she  was 
most  ill  at  ease  in  a  drawing-room,  was  constantly  opening  or 
shutting  a  fan,  handling  some  object  or  moving  about  restlessly, 
and  one  of  the  chief  things  she  envied  in  Margaret  was  her  re- 
pose of  manner  and  self-possession. 

This  marriage  between  the  Americana  and  Belmonte  was 
certainly  a  remarkable  one.  They  were  so  young  and  yet  con- 
tented alone  together  on  a  mountain  top,  without  missing  the 
society  of  the  gay  world  for  which  they  were  both  fitted. 

Margaret  had  no  idea  of  Carlotta's  enmity  toward  her;  she 
found  her  companionable,  for  she  sorely  missed  the  society  of 
her  own  sex  and  made  more  of  a  friend  of  Santoni's  daughter 
than  she  ever  would  have  dreamed  of  doing  had  there  been  any 
woman  of  her  own  class  available.  She  was  interested  in  the 
girl's  career  as  a  singer  and  liked  to  help  her  plan  her  cos- 
tumes; besides,  Carlotta  made  a  great  display  of  affection  for 
the  baby  and  was  loud  in  her  praises  of  his  beauty,  and  that 
appealed  to  Margaret's  maternal  pride. 

He  was  a  wonderfully  bright  child,  and  though  he  did  not 
talk  he  managed  to  make  himself  understood.  So  far  his  only 
word  was  his  father's  name,  abbreviated  into  "  'One,"  which 
he  would  repeat  continually  and  sometimes  he  would  attempt 
to  call  "  Fleurette,"  the  macaw,  and  many  a  frolic  he  would 
have  trying  to  catch  Fauvel's  pet,  which  with  clipped  wings, 
could  only  fly  a  few  feet.  The  baby  would  raise  his  arms  and 
try  his  best  to  fly,  too,  and  then  clap  his  little  hands  and  scream 
with  glee  as  Fleurette  came  fluttering  back  to  the  ground,  shed- 
ding some  of  her  brilliant  plumage  in  the  excitement  of  the 
chase. 

And  as  the  child  grew  in  beauty  and  intelligence  his  father's 
love  for  him  grew  stronger  and  stronger,  until  it  became  little 
short  of  adoration.  If  anything  went  wrong,  the  child's  first 
cry  was  for  "  'One,"  "  'One,"  and  the  doting  parent  would  drop 


"The  Evil  Eye"  211 

everything  and  hasten  to  settle  matters  to  the  satisfaction  of 
the  little  one.  If  the  child  did  not  want  to  be  taken  upstairs 
at  the  proper  hour  for  his  nap  he  had  only  to  appeal  to  "  'One  " 
and  he  need  not  go. 

This  troubled  Margaret,  for  she  had  seen  children  brought 
up  at  home  with  regular  habits  and  she  also  realized  that 
where  a  spoiled  infant  may  be  tolerated  a  spoiled  boy  is  in- 
tolerable. 

"  Do  not  worry  over  such  trifles,  sposina  mia"  Leone  would 
say;  "  one  hour  for  a  nap  is  as  good  as  another,"  and  then  he 
would  carry  the  child  off  to  the  garden,  lay  him  down  in  the 
shade  of  an  oleander  tree  and  shake  the  limbs  until  its  loose 
blossoms  fell  over  him  like  a  snowstorm  and  the  little  one  be- 
came exhausted  with  the  sport  and  fell  asleep.  His  father 
would  mount  guard  over  him,  with  a  palm  branch  keeping  away 
the  insects,  and  silently  worshipping  his  offspring.  When 
Margaret  would  find  her  child  napping  peacefully  under  a 
coverlid  of  pink  and  white  petals,  Leone  would  pull  her  down 
beside  him  and  kiss  away  her  annoyance  and  say:  "  See,  Amore, 
this  is  nature's  cradle,  the  soft  dry  grass,  the  sky  and  air;  such 
sleep  is  good  and  I  am  close  beside  him." 

But  once  she  replied,  still  vexed :  "  The  way  you  behave  with 
the  baby  is  idolatry,  nothing  more  nor  less." 

A  dark  flush  mounted  to  his  face  as  if  her  words  had  angered 
him;  then  controlling  himself  he  answered  gently:  "You  do 
not  love  him  as  I  do,  Margherita;  you  never  have.  I  know 
Fauvel  chaffs  me  and  says  I  am  the  mother,  not  you.  You  did 
not  want  the  little  one  to  come  and  I  did.  You  thought  it  a 
disgrace,  and  I  know  what  is  always  in  your  mind ;  though  you 
love  him  in  a  way,  you  look  upon  him  as  your  shame,  but  he  is 
my  glory,  my  delight!  You  are  always  afraid  some  of  your 
people  will  find  out  he  is  yours ;  on  the  contrary,  I  would  re- 
joice if  the  whole  world  might  know  he  was  mine,  another  Es- 
tori !  "  And  he  looked  proudly  at  the  sleeping  child.  The 
sweet  little  mouth  was  parted  with  the  suggestion  of  a  smile, 


212  A  Cry  of  Youth 

showing  two  tiny  teeth,  and  the  long  lashes  swept  the  soft,  rosy 
cheeks. 

"  Another  Estori,"  he  repeated ;  "  they  have  always  been  a 
handsome  race,  my  mother  was  beautiful,  and  my  son,"  he 
added,  "  is  more  beautiful  than  all.  Ah,  little  heart,"  he  mur- 
mured, as  he  bent  over  him  waving  the  palm  to  and  fro,  to  ward 
off  a  butterfly  that  was  hovering  near,  "  angelino!  " 

About  the  middle  of  August  Fauvel  decided  to  join  friends 
at  Ostend;  he  would  only  be  gone  three  weeks,  he  said,  for  he 
must  be  back  to  complete  his  picture  of  "  Springtime  "  before 
he  took  up  his  winter  quarters  in  Perugia.  He  made  his  fare- 
wells to  the  family  the  previous  evening,  as  he  intended  to  leave 
at  sunrise,  but  Leone,  who  never  let  Fauvel  depart  without 
seeing  him  off,  rose  early  and,  taking  up  the  child,  who  always 
awoke  with  the  dawn,  went  over  to  his  apartments  to  have  a 
few  last  words  with  him. 

He  found  the  artist  hastily  taking  his  coffee  and  rolls. 

"  I  wish  things  were  so  that  I  might  take  you  and  Mar- 
gherita  with  me,"  he  said.  "  I  think  she  needs  a  change;  she 
has  a  stupid  time  of  it  here,  poor  little  Margherita!  " 

Leone  looked  at  him  in  astonishment.  "  What  do  you  mean, 
Meurice  ?  "  he  said. 

"  I  mean  that  Margherita  is  a  woman  who  by  her  birth, 
education,  and  natural  charm  could  shine  in  the  world,  and  yet 
she  loves  you  enough  to  put  it  all  aside  and  stay  with  you  in  a 
ruin,  living  here  in  obscurity,  like  a  choice  flower  that  grows 
sometimes,  who  knows  why,  in  the  rift  of  a  lonely  rock.  Few 
men  are  loved  like  this;  I  never  was;  I  wonder  if  you  appre- 
ciate it?" 

"  Of  course  I  do,"  he  replied,  a  little  ruffled,  "  but  I  cannot 
see  why  you  are  sorry  for  her.  She  has  the  best  of  health,  a 
life  free  from  care,  her  husband  and  her  child  — "  glancing 
down  with  pride  at  the  little  laughing  face  looking  up  at  him. 

"  Ah,  her  child !  "  Fauvel  repeated.  "  You  never  let  her 
have  her  child.  You  have  one  great  monopoly  there.  Day 


'The  Evil  Eye"  213 

and  night  you  take  her  baby  away  from  her.  You  are  selfish 
to  her  in  this  matter,  enormously  selfish." 

"  I  would  not  be  selfish  with  Margherita  for  all  the  world," 
he  said  resentfully,  "  but  I  love  the  child  more  than  she  does, 
and  often  he  is  troublesome  to  her,  but  he  is  never  a  trouble  to 
me." 

"  Women  expect  their  children  to  be  a  trouble  to  them  as  well 
as  a  pleasure.  I  have  never  heard  her  complain." 

"  Oh,  no,  not  that  — " 

"  Well,  you  should  let  her  have  more  care  of  him.  If  she 
happens  to  be  playing  with  him  alone  and  you  come  along,  you 
monopolize  the  baby  and  the  toy  and  Margherita  has  to  do 
something  else.  Yesterday  when  you  took  him  out  of  her  arms 
and  went  off  with  him,  I  found  her  throwing  your  ball  list- 
lessly against  the  side  of  the  house  and  catching  it  again  with- 
out any  interest  in  the  act.  It  was  a  pathetic  sight  to  me.  I 
tell  you  she  needs  her  little  one  and  you  ought  to  let  her  have 
him!" 

At  first  Leone  made  no  answer;  then  after  a  slight  pause, 
lifting  the  child  in  his  arms,  he  said,  "  Don't  you  think  it  is  as 
much  a  father's  duty  to  care  for  a  child  as  a  mother's?  " 

"  Certainly,  but  I  do  not  see  that  you  are  caring  for  him. 
It  is  a  father's  duty  to  work  for  his  children,  not  to  idle  away 
the  days  amusing  and  spoiling  them.  You  have  not  touched 
your  manuscripts  lately.  You  are  wasting  valuable  time." 

"  You  are  right  about  that,"  he  assented.  "  I  must  get  to 
work  again.  Oh,  you  may  find  fault  with  me  and  criticize  me. 
I  don't  doubt  you  are  right,  Meurice,  but  you  cannot  compre- 
hend how  I  love  my  son,  and  he  loves  me  just  as  much.  Ah, 
we  understand  each  other,  little  heart?"  and  a  soft,  tender 
light  came  into  his  eyes.  "  Why,  Meurice,  I  love  this  child  so 
much  —  so  much  —  I  can  hardly  explain  it ;  but  I  feel  as  if 
there  were  some  cord  of  sympathy  between  him  and  me  that 
could  not  be  broken  if  one  of  us  should  die." 

"  That  is  a  woman's  love,"  said  Fauvel  disapprovingly,  "  it 


214  A  Cry  of  Youth 

is  not  a  man's  love.  You  must  fight  against  this,  Estori,  for  it 
is  unnatural,  and  you  are  mistaken  when  you  hint  that  Mar- 
gherita  does  not  love  .her  child;  she  does,  but  she  is  a  normal 
parent;  you  are  not.  Now,"  he  continued,  as  he  put  down  his 
cup  and  rose  from  the  table,  "  if  you  will  help  me  with  this 
shawl-strap  a  moment  — " 

Leone  stood  the  child  on  the  floor  and  gave  a  vigorous  pull. 
"  Thank  you,  that's  it.  Ah,  ah,  naughty!  "  Fauvel  said  to  the 
baby,  as  he  caught  the  little  hand  stealing  sugar  from  the  break- 
fast tray ;  and,  turning  to  Leone,  "  Do  not  let  him  do  that ;  he 
has  helped  himself  to  three  pieces  and  you  say  nothing.  Mar- 
gherita  would  not  allow  that,  she  loves  her  child  too  well  to 
let  him  ruin  his  teeth  and  his  digestion.  Avanti!"  he  called 
out  in  answer  to  a  knock  at  the  door,  and  Illario,  the  driver,  and 
Beppo  entered.  "  All  this  goes,"  he  said,  pointing  to  a  pile  of 
luggage  which  they  proceeded  to  carry  out.  "  Yes,  I'm  ready." 

"  Kiss  thy  hand  to  the  uncle,"  Leone  said  to  the  child  as 
Fauvel  was  about  to  get  into  the  carriage. 

Fauvel  was  not  demonstrative  and  he  could  not  tell  at  the 
time  what  made  him  turn  back  and  take  the  child  from  its 
father  and  kiss  it  again  and  again. 

This  strange,  self-contained  man  loved  the  tiny  being  who 
had  found  its  way  into  his  ruinous  retreat,  he  could  not  tell 
why,  for  he  loved  few  things  outside  his  art;  first  of  all,  per- 
haps, because  it  was  beautiful.  Secondly,  its  parents  had  en- 
deared themselves  to  him,  he  supposed  partly  on  account  of 
their  dependence.  Until  he  had  taken  Margaret  and  Estori 
under  his  protection  he  had  gone  through  life  without  realizing 
what  it  was  to  have  others  dependent  on  him  and  he  took  a 
peculiar  pleasure  in  all  he  did  for  them.  Also  he  felt  in  a  way 
responsible  for  the  little  one's  coming  into  the  world,  and 
thirdly,  he  loved  it  for  its  own  sake ;  it  had  a  sweet  and  remark- 
able personality  for  a  child  of  such  tender  age.  Leone  had 
taken  it  from  the  cradle,  and  in  a  frolic  it  had  cast  aside  its 
night-slip  and  was  clothed  only  in  a  short,  sleeveless  garment. 


''The  Evil  Eye"  215 

Fauvel  kissed  the  laughing  mouth,  the  white  dimpled  arms  and 
shoulders  that  Margherita  had  given  it,  then  handed  him  back 
to  Leone,  who  perched  him  on  his  left  shoulder,  throwing  his 
arms  lightly  about  him,  taking  one  of  those  easy,  graceful 
poses  that  were  so  natural  to  him.  He  had  dressed  hastily  and 
wore  a  loose  pink  shirt  (a  color  most  becoming  to  his  clear 
olive  skin)  open  at  the  neck,  with  the  sleeves  rolled  up,  show- 
ing his  fine,  full  throat  and  chest  and  strong  young  arms.  He 
wore  shorf  tan  trousers,  and  was  without  shoes  or  stockings. 
Fauvel  thought  that  he  had  never  seen  him  look  so  handsome 
or  so  youthful,  as  he  stood  there  beaming  with  happy  pride  at 
the  attention  bestowed  upon  his  son. 

His  was  a  light-hearted,  happy  temperament,  living  merely 
for  the  present,  enjoying  the  beautiful,  taking  the  sweets  of  life 
and  avoiding  the  bitter.  Eloquent,  ardent,  lofty  in  sentiment 
and  pure  in  mind,  with  the  high-born  bearing  of  the  noble  house 
of  Estori  and  the  startling,  audacious  beauty  of  his  Sicilian 
mother,  a  beauty  that  still  shows  strains  of  Greek,  Saracen, 
Arabic  and  Egyptian  blood  blended  into  the  Latin. 

The  two  seemed  as  if  they  might  have  been  kissed  by  the 
dawn,  so  fresh  they  were,  with  the  early  sunshine  falling  upon 
them,  heightening  the  rich  crimson  in  Leone's  face  and  giving 
to  the  perfect  little  body  in  his  arms  a  wonderful  rosy  glow. 

What  a  picture  they  made!  And  Fauvel  was  forcibly  struck 
with  a  new  idea. 

The  world  had  prated  of  "  Motherhood  "  since  time  imme- 
morial, poets  had  sung  of  it,  and  since  the  Christian  era  had 
made  a  religion  of  it ;  but  who  spoke  of  "  Fatherhood  "  ?  Who- 
ever saw  it  as  he  saw  it  there?  He  would  like  to  show  it  to 
the  world  just  as  he  saw  it,  to  put  it  in  a  new  light,  to  make  it 
an  inspiration  to  weary  toiling  fathers  who  sometimes  look 
upon  their  children  as  burdens  only;  to  indifferent  fathers  to 
instill  love  and  to  every  father  to  teach  a  lesson  of  pride  in  his 
offspring;  and  Fauvel  found  himself  admiring  in  Leone  the 
very  characteristics  for  which  a  few  moments  before  he  had 


216  A  Cry  of  Youth 

admonished  him.  There  was  something  most  touching  and 
yet  terrible  in  the  strength  of  the  love  of  this  young  father. 
It  was  the  fierceness  of  the  eagle  with  the  tenderness  of  the 
dove.  His  whole  being  radiated  the  pride  of  his  fatherhood; 
it  seemed  to  say,  "  This  lovely  babe  is  bone  of  my  bone,  flesh  of 
my  flesh,  through  me  he  has  his  being;  he  is  mine,  another  self, 
and  I  adore  him,  I  worship  him,  my  son  —  my  son !  " 

"Wave  farewell  to  the  uncle,  Amore"  Leone  said  again; 
"  he  goes  far  away  from  us  to  the  seashore  of  another  country ; 
when  he  returns  perhaps  thou  wilt  have  learned  another  word. 
Good-by,  Meurice;  a  river derci." 

As  the  wagon  rolled  through  the  courtyard,  they  still  stood 
there  waving  to  him,  and  the  last  time  Fauvel  turned  back  to 
look  at  them  a  great  golden  butterfly  was  hovering  just  out  of 
reach  of  the  little  arm  and  hand  stretched  up  to  catch  it;  in  his 
mind's  eye  he  saw  that  picture  many  times  afterwards. 


CHAPTER   XIX 

THE  SPELL  WORKS 

Yet  Love  is  weak, 

It  cannot  stand  alone  amid  the  strife, 

It  cannot  teach  our  faltering  lips  to  speak, 

It  cannot  even  save  one  little  life! 

Love  is  so  weak! 

CONSTANCE  JOHNSON. 

Fauvel's  vacation  had  expired  and  he  was  expected  home  at 
any  time.  The  season  was  advancing,  and  the  harvest  moon 
rose  nightly,  big  as  a  cart-wheel  and  yellow  as  gold. 

Leone,  Margaret  and  Carlotta  were  together  in  the  grand 
central  hall  of  the  keep,  where  a  lordly  colonnade  supported 
the  lofty  ceiling  and  gigantic  caryatids  graced  the  walls.  At 
one  end  of  the  hall  was  a  thronelike  stone  seat,  raised  a  few 
steps  above  the  floor.  In  this  Leone  lounged  carelessly,  strum- 
ming a  guitar  and  watching  Margaret  and  Carlotta  amuse 
themselves  with  a  basket  of  kittens.  They  had  no  lamp,  for 
the  moonlight  coming  in  through  the  long  windows  flooded  the 
place,  casting  upon  the  marble  floor  the  shadow  of  their  iron, 
bars. 

Margaret  had  invited  Carlotta  to  remain  during  Fauvel's 
absence  and  she  had  readily  accepted. 

"  How  glad  I  shall  be  to  have  Meurice  at  home  again !  " 
Margaret  was  saying.  "  It  is  always  so  dull  without  him." 

Carlotta  looked  at  her;  the  remark  had  been  made  most  in- 
nocently, but  the  girl  stored  it  up  in  her  memory  for  future  use. 
"  Meurice  knows  so  much,"  Margaret  went  on ;  "  history,  art, 
geography,  archaeology,  languages — " 

"  To  say  nothing  of  medicine  and  surgery,"  put  in  Leone ; 
"  don't  forget  that." 

"  I'm  not  likely  to,"  she  said.  "  Do  you  think  I  will  ever 

217 


218  A  Cry  of  Youth 


forget  how  splendid  he  was  when  the  baby  was  born?  But  I 
was  thinking  what  a  source  of  knowledge  he  is.  If  I  want  to 
know  about  something,  I  have  only  to  ask  him  and  he  explains 
so  clearly  and  lucidly.  Oh,  yes,  I  always  miss  him  when  he 
is  away." 

"  So  do  I,"  said  Leone,  "  and  I'll  be  immensely  glad  to  have 
him  back  except  that  his  return  means  those  tiresome  hours  in 
the  studio  again." 

Carlotta's  blue  eyes  flashed.  She  shared  those  hours.  "  I 
shall  be  glad  to  have  the  professore  return  because  he  is  always 
so  polite,"  she  said  pointedly. 

Margaret  gave  Leone  a  reproving  glance;  his  speech  had 
sounded  personal  though  he  had  not  intended  it  so.  He 
shrugged  his  shoulders  in  answer  to  her  look,  played  a  few 
chords  on  the  guitar,  and  began  to  sing  a  popular  song.  Car- 
lotta,  conquering  her  momentary  anger,  joined  in  with  her 
strong  mezzo-soprano,  while  Margaret  took  up  the  refrain  — 
' ' E  la  rosa  piu  bella  che  ce* 'J 

The  accompaniment  had  a  gay  waltz  movement,  and  their 
voices  rose  to  the  domed  ceiling,  filling  the  spacious  hall  with 
merry  music. 

Suddenly  Lisa,  Armida  and  Beppo  burst  excitedly  upon  them, 
all  speaking  at  once.  Leone  stood  up,  telling  them  to  be  silent, 
and  giving  permission  to  Beppo  alone  to  explain. 

The  boy  came  forward,  his  eyes  dilating. 

"  A  horrible  creature,  Signore  —  hideous,  all  head  and  arms, 
brutto,  bruttissimo,  more  like  an  animal,  than  a  human,  an  evil 
one,  for  sure !  It  might  be  well  to  close  all  doors  and  windows 
on  the  ground  floor — " 

"  The  jettatura,  the  dwarf !  "  Leone  exclaimed,  his  fingers 
making  the  signs  of  the  horns.  "  Where  did  you  see  him  ?  " 

"  Near  the  kitchen  door,"  the  boy  replied.  "  Armida  stepped 
out  to  draw  some  water  from  the  cistern;  we  heard  her  scream, 
and  both  Lisa  and  I  saw  him.  Shall  the  Signore  have  the 
windows  closed  ?  —  the  bars  are  broken  and  rotten." 


The  Spell  Works  219 

"  Let  us  look  for  him  first,"  he  said,  and  left  the  hall,  fol- 
lowed by  the  terrified  servants. 

"  Ah,  misericordiaf "  wailed  Carlotta,  and  Margaret  saw 
that  she  also  had  fixed  her  left  hand  in  the  sign.  "It  is  the 
'  evil  eye  '  again ;  misfortune  threatens  us !  " 

Margaret's  lip  curled  a  little  scornfully.  "  The  poor  thing," 
she  said,  "  was  probably  hungry  and  only  going  to  beg  for  some- 
thing to  eat." 

"  Signora,"  said  Carlotta  sharply,  "  you  are  not  simpatica;* 
your  husband  suffers  and  you  laugh.  I  suffer,  but  wait  — 
time  will  show  if  our  fears  are  foolish,"  and  she  began  to 
fan  herself  violently.  Here  at  least  she  had  something  in  com- 
mon with  Belmonte. 

Leone  and  Beppo  made  a  tour  around  the  outside  of  the  castle 
and  grounds,  but  could  find  no  one.  Just  as  they  were  about 
to  give  up,  however,  they  saw  for  an  instant,  far  off  upon  a 
hillock,  the  grotesque  figure  of  Ferruccio,  the  dwarf,  silhouetted 
against  the  pale  sky.  They  ran  in  that  direction  but  their 
search  was  fruitless  as  before;  in  spite  of  his  age,  the  creature 
was  quick  and  agile  and  had  slipped  away  somewhere.  Leone 
was  greatly  disturbed.  He  wished  that  Fauvel  were  home  to 
consult.  The  secret  of  the  hidden  passage  was  not  a  pleasant 
thought,  and  doubly  unpleasant  from  his  conviction  that  the 
fellow  foreboded  evil. 

Upon  reentering  the  house  he  gave  orders  to  close  all  the 
doors  and  windows  on  the  ground  floor,  and  not  to  open  them 
on  any  pretext  until  morning. 

"I'm  so  glad  Fauvel  will  soon  be  back,"  Margaret  said; 
"I'm  quite  sure  he  will  not  consent  to  our  being  shut  up  with- 
out any  air." 

"  But  the  servants,  mia  cara,  are  very  nervous,"  Leone  re- 
plied ;  "  they  are  always  fearful  and  superstitious  about  the 
'  evil  eye '." 

"  The  servants  are  also  superstitious  about  an  unbaptized 

*  Sympathetic. 


220  A  Cry  of  Youth 

child,"  she  returned ;  "  but  you  don't  seem  to  let  that  disturb 
you."  tje  shuffled  uncomfortably  in  his  chair,  but  made  no 
answer,  and  the  evening  being  broken  up,  they  retired. 

"  This  is  from  Meurice,"  said  Leone  the  next  day,  as  he 
tore  open  a  letter  with  a  French  stamp.  "  Good !  he  expects 
to  be  with  us  to-night!  And  this  is  for  thee,"  and  he  handed 
Margaret  a  pamphlet. 

She  opened  it.  It  was  a  fashion  magazine  with  pictures  of 
prominent  women  in  smart,  modish  gowns. 

"Oh,  dear,  oh,  dear!"  she  sighed,  as  she  turned  its  pages. 
"  This  shows  me  how  frightfully  out  of  date  my  clothes  are, 
but  what  can  one  expect  when  one  lives  up  in  the  clouds,  and 
the  only  styles  one  sees  in  the  villages  are  the  green  umbrellas 
of  the  peasants !  What  a  sight  I  must  look  like,  and  I  used  to 
keep  up  to  the  times  in  everything,  and  although  I  was  never 
extravagant  no  one  could  say  that  I  was  not  always  well 
dressed,  but  now  —  oh,  dear !  " 

"  You  always  look  beautiful  to  me,  Margherita,"  Leone  said 
consolingly;  "  I  think  your  dresses  are  lovely." 

"  That  is  because  you  know  nothing  of  the  styles,  and  there 
are  no  well-dressed  women  for  you  to  see." 

"  Fauvel  sees  well-dressed  women  in  Rome  and  Perugia  and 
other  cities,  and  he  always  thinks  you  look  all  right." 

"  Because  Fauvel  is  an  artist  and  has  a  mind  above  prevailing 
styles.  If  I  stick  a  bow  or  feather  on  a  hat  at  a  becoming  angle 
he  says  it  is  '  artistic '  and  that's  all  he  cares  about.  But  if  I 
should  go  into  the  cities  other  men  would  laugh  at  my  old- 
fashioned  things  and  the  women  would  snub  me  and  call  me  a 
'  shabby  dud.'  " 

"  Men  and  women  who  would  be  cruel  to  thee  on  account 
of  thy  clothes  are  not  worth  considering,  carissima." 

"  Oh,  that's  the  way  of  the  world,  you  don't  understand ; 
clothes  are  such  a  factor."  Margaret  and  Leone  were  alone, 
with  the  baby  playing  beside  them. 

"  I'm  thinking  there  is  much  wisdom  in  the  cloister,  where 


The  Spell  Works  221 

monastic  orders  have  not  changed  their  styles  for  over  a  thou- 
sand years.  What  would  be  accomplished  if  Padre  Carlo 
should  make  himself  sick  with  envy  of  the  cut  of  Fra  Anselmo's 
cape,  or  the  sacristan  insult  the  porter  on  account  of  the  shape 
of  his  collar!  "  And  Leone  laughed  softly  to  himself  at  the 
mere  idea. 

It  was  rarely  he  alluded  to  his  old  life,  but  Margaret  was 
poring  over  the  fashions  and  paid  no  attention,  and  the  baby, 
who  was  tired  of  his  playthings,  began  to  tug  at  the  paper  in  her 
hand. 

"  No,  darling,"  she  said,  "you  cannot  have  it;  this  is  moth- 
er's book;  here  is  baby's,"  and  she  picked  up  an  indestructible 
one  full  of  colored  pictures  and  opened  it ;  "  see  the  big  doggie 
and  the  white  pussy-cat;  nice  book  for  baby." 

But  the  little  one  was  tired  of  his  own  and  wanted  hers. 
He  tugged  at  it  again  and  tore  one  of  the  leaves. 

"  Oh,  naughty,  naughty !  "  she  cried,  and  before  she  could 
catch  the  little  ruthless  hand  another  leaf  was  gone. 

"  Can  you  not  take  care  of  him  this  afternoon,  Leone  ?  "  she 
asked.  "  Giacinta  is  lying  down;  she  has  a  headache,  and  I 
must  write  home." 

The  child  was  just  at  that  troublesome  age  when  he  was  into 
everything  quick  as  a  flash  and  needed  watching  every  moment. 
Leone  put  down  Fauvel's  letter.  "  I  too  have  writing  planned 
for  this  afternoon,  Margherita.  You  know  there  is  nothing  I 
would  rather  do  than  amuse  the  bambino,  but  I  must  get  that 
manuscript  copied  and  sent  off  before  Meurice  returns;  if  I 
don't,  he  will  say  that  I  am  wasting  time." 

"  It  is  nearly  a  month  since  I've  written  to  my  sister,  and  I 
must  do  it  to-day.  You  have  had  plenty  of  time  all  this 
while." 

"  I  might  say  the  same  thing:  you  have  had  plenty  of  time." 

"  Perhaps ;  but  I  am  busy  about  other  matters.  Oh,  don't 
let  him  be  so  destructive !  "  she  cried,  as  the  little  one  ran  over 
to  Leone  with  the  magazine,  bent  on  destroying  it. 


222  A  Cry  of  Youth 

"  Come,  Amore,  sweet,"  Leone  said,  rescuing  the  book  and 
tossing  it  to  her,  "  I  am  busy  also,  Margherita,  but  I  am  never 
too  busy  to  take  care  of  my  son.  Do  you  notice  how  we  always 
come  near  quarreling  every  time  the  '  evil  eye  '  appears  ?  Come, 
Amore"  he  said  again,  as  he  took  the  child  in  his  arms, 
"  we  will  find  a  book  that  thou  may'st  tear  to  thy  heart's 
content." 

And  Margaret  heard  him  muttering  as  he  walked  away  in 
injured  dignity:  "  Never  mind,  little  one,  thy  father  loves 
thee ;  thy  father  would  die  for  thee !  " 

Margaret  went  up  to  her  room  and  wrote  her  letter  and  then 
dressed  with  a  shade  of  conscience  that  she  had  been  selfish. 
She  glanced  in  the  long  mirror  and  said  to  herself :  "  Yes,  I'm 
terribly  out  of  date.  My  gown  is  clean  and  fresh,  that's  the 
only  thing  to  its  credit ;  but  it's  awfully  '  school-girl-looking ' ; 
not  a  bit  appropriate  for  a  woman  who's  supposed  to  be  mar- 
ried, and  not  at  all  what's  being  worn.  Oh,  well,  Leone  loves 
me  and  the  baby  loves  me,  and  they  don't  know  anything  about 
styles,  and  Meurice  and  Carlotta  think  I'm  all  right,  and  they 
are  my  world,  after  all,"  so  she  ran  downstairs  and  out  into  the 
garden.  Carlotta  sat  reading  in  the  shade. 

"  Don't  you  want  to  help  me  find  some  flowers?  "  she  said  to 
her.  "  I  would  like  the  rooms  to  look  pretty  when  Signor 
Fauvel  comes." 

Carlotta  laid  down  her  book  and  the  two  girls  gathered  what 
flowers  the  fierce  August  sun  had  spared.  They  took  them 
into  the  house  and  Margaret  rang  for  Armida.  "  Bring  me  a 
jug  of  water  and  pour  some  into  the  crystal  bowl  in  the  cedar 
room."  Then  to  Carlotta,  "  We  will  arrange  the  flowers  on 
the  big  table  in  there." 

When  Armida  returned  with  the  water  she  informed  them 
that  an  automobile  was  coming  along  the  road  that  led  up  from 
the  valley  and  would  pass  the  castle,  and  did  not  the  ladies  wish 
to  see  it?  They  ran  out  to  the  great  gates  of  the  courtyard 
and  waited;  any  event  out  of  the  ordinary  was  a  welcome  di- 


The  Spell  Works  223 

version,  and  so  far  automobiles  had  not  ventured  the  precipitous 
approach  to  the  castle. 

"  Dio  mio"  said  Carlotta,  "  when  automobiles  can  climb 
mountains  and  air-ships  rise  up  and  look  in  at  our  windows, 
there  will  not  be  a  spot  where  one  can  be  in  seclusion  if  one 
chooses." 

The  machine,  a  high-powered  climber,  slowed  down  almost 
to  a  stop  as  it  passed;  its  occupants,  two  men,  were  evidently 
admiring  the  beauty  of  the  old  fortress  and  discussing  its  points 
of  interest ;  then  they  started  again,  throwing  on  the  brakes  for 
the  descent,  and  went  whizzing  away;  but  as  Margaret  and 
Carlotta  turned  to  go  back  to  the  house,  a  frightful  blood- 
curdling shriek  was  heard,  then  a  pistol  shot,  and  a  second  and 
a  third. 

"Something  terrible  has  happened,"  said  Margaret;  "can 
there  have  been  an  accident?  " 

"  No,"  said  Carlotta,  "  for  there  goes  the  machine." 

The  automobile,  lost  to  sight  for  a  few  seconds  between  the 
high  walls  that  turned  at  the  foot  of  the  hill,  was  now  speeding 
along  the  serpentine  road  toward  the  village  as  if  Satan  himself 
was  after  it.  "  That  scream  and  shot  were  close  at  hand," 
said  Margaret ;  "  let  us  go  and  see  — " 

Carlotta  hejd  her  back.  "  If  there  is  trouble,  Signora,  we 
women  ought  to  keep  out  of  it."  But  Margaret's  face  had 
changed  in  that  instant.  "  My  husband,"  she  said,  "  and  my 
baby,  where  are  they  ?  I  have  not  seen  them  around  anywhere ! 
The  signore  often  carries  a  pistol  when  he  goes  outside  the  gates 
—  oh,  dear  God!" 

She  grasped  Carlotta's  arm  and  then  darted  down  the  road, 
for  Leone  had  appeared  stumbling  and  staggering,  with  the 
child  limp  in  his  arms. 

"Where  are  you  hurt,  Leone,  dearest?"  she  cried,  as  she 
bounded  toward  him,  Carlotta  following. 

Leone  was  covered  with  blood,  his  face  was  livid,  but  his 
eyes  blazed.  His  teeth  were  chattering  so  that  he  could  not 


224  A  Cry  of  Youth 

form  his  speech ;  but  at  last  he  managed  to  gasp :  "  Not  I  — 
not  I  —  but  the  little  one  —  the  automobile  made  no  sound  —  I 
neither  saw  nor  heard  it  —  the  bambino  ran  out  —  ah,  Madre 
di  Dio,  I  fired  the  shots  —  I !  I  hope  to  God  I  killed  them  — 
they  ran  over  the  little  innocent  with  no  more  feeling  than  if 
he  had  been  a  squirrel  and  never  stopped  to  see  or  help  me. 
I  hope  they  choke  now  in  death  agony,  with  fumes  of  hell! 
Curse  them !  Ah,  my  son,  my  son !  " 

All  the  color  had  vanished  from  Margaret's  face.  Carlotta 
thought  she  was  going  to  die  on  the  spot.  She  shut  her  eyes 
for  a  second  and  swayed  as  if  about  to  fall,  then  she  braced 
herself,  gathering  all  her  nerve-force  to  look  again  upon  the 
shocking  sight  she  had  just  perceived,  the  blood  pouring  from 
the  baby's  crushed  feet. 

She  stood  very  still,  trying  to  take  it  all  in.  Leone  was  un- 
hurt, but  her  child  was  probably  mortally  injured,  or  else 
maimed  for  life.  His  eyes  were  closed  and  he  was  uncon- 
scious. 

"  Precious  lamb !  "  she  murmured ;  then  making  a  supreme 
effort,  took  him  from  Leone;  he  moaned  and  the  blood  flowed 
down  upon  her  white  dress.  "  Precious  lamb !  "  she  breathed 
again,  and  began  to  carry  him  to  the  house. 

But  Leone's  strength  had  given  way,  his  legs  bent  under  him, 
he  could  not  stand,  and  Carlotta  put  her  arm  around  him  and 
supported  him  as  they  followed  Margaret  up  the  road,  through 
the  gateway,  across  the  flagged  courtyard  and  into  the  house, 
leaving  a  trail  of  blood  in  their  wake.  Lisa  and  Armida  had 
also  heard  and  ran  out,  wringing  their  hands  and  calling  fran- 
tically upon  all  the  saints  for  aid.  Clemente  was  in  the  vil- 
lage and  Beppo  visiting  his  mother  on  the  other  side  of  the 
mountain.  Only  the  women  were  at  home.  They  tried  to 
stop  Margaret  with  their  lamentations  and  questions,  but  she 
pushed  past  them  and  made  her  way  to  the  cedar  room  and  laid 
the  child  down.  "  Fly  to  Fauvel's  closet,"  she  commanded  Car- 
lotta, "  and  find  the  bottle  with  a  blue  label ;  it  is  an  antisep- 


The  Spell  Works  225 

tic,  and  call  Giacinta.  Something  must  be  done  to  stop  this 
bleeding.  Lisa,  bring  a  sheet  and  tear  it  in  strips,  and  you, 
Armida,  come  here  with  that  bowl  of  water." 

"  Is  she  made  of  iron,"  thought  Carlotta,  as  she  flew  off  on 
the  errand;  "  at  least,  she  has  a  heart  of  it  —  she  sheds  not  a 
tear  and  her  only  child  lies  mangled." 

Leone  leaned  against  the  wall,  useless  and  shaking.  He  had 
lost  the  power  of  speech  again  and  was  chattering  and  mutter- 
ing, his  arm  raised  in  a  threatening  attitude  as  if  cursing  the 
whole  world. 

And  Margaret,  dry-eyed  and  silent,  did  what  she  could,  feel- 
ing her  helplessness  and  ignorance,  as  she  bathed  the  ghastly 
remains  of  her  child's  limbs,  while  Armida,  sobbing,  held  the 
bowl  of  water. 

Then  Lisa  returned  with  the  sheet,  tearing  it  on  her  way,  and 
Carlotta  brought  the  bottle,  and  —  oh,  thank  Heaven !  —  Gia- 
cinta came. 

She  said  not  a  word  but  went  straight  to  the  couch  and  took 
the  bandages  from  Margaret's  trembling  hands  and  quickly  tied 
them  above  each  ankle,  using  all  her  strength  to  pull  them  tight 
until  the  veins  stood  out  upon  her  forehead,  then  deftly  made  a 
tourniquet. 

Margaret  looked  at  her  appealingly. 

"  The  arteries,  Signora,  I  fear  are  severed."  Then  to  the 
others,  waving  them  back,  "  Don't  crowd  around ;  you  keep 
the  air  from  the  little  one."  They  obeyed  and  moved  away. 

Every  one  respected  Giacinta;  she  had  a  quiet  dignity  and 
knew  a  great  deal  about  sickness  and  nursing.  "  Without  a 
doctor  we  can  do  nothing  more  at  present,"  she  continued,  "  and 
amputation  may  be  necessary  to  save  his  life." 

At  the  word  "  amputation "  Leone  found  his  speech ;  he 
flung  himself  on  his  knees  beside  the  couch  and  cried  out: 

"  No,  no,  never !  Thy  little  feet  cut  off  —  no,  no,  Amore, 
thou  wilt  soon  be  well  again,  as  soon  as  Meurice  comes  to  thee. 
We  were  down  the  hill  waiting  for  him;  he  may  be  here  any 


226  A  Cry  of  Youth 

minute.  Thou  shalt  run  and  play  again,  angelino,  thou  shalt, 
thy  father  promises  it  to  thee.  We  will  have  the  best  surgeon 
in  the  kingdom !  " 

The  child  grew  suddenly  whiter.  Giacinta  felt  the  tiny  pulse 
and  shook  her  head. 

"  Oh,  Meurice,"  gasped  Margaret,  "  why  are  you  not  here!  " 

"  We  can  send  to  Fossato  for  a  doctor — "  Leone  wailed. 

"  It  would  be  hours  before  a  doctor  could  reach  us,"  Giacinta 
replied ;  then  added  gently,  "  Signore  mio,  do  not  deceive  your- 
self. The  bambino  grows  weaker,  and  we  are  powerless." 

"  Dear  Leone,"  said  Margaret,  shuddering,  "  he  would  be  a 
helpless  cripple." 

"Oh,  horrendo!"*  cried  Carlotta,  "let  him  die  at  once 
sooner  than  that."  But  Leone  turned  on  them  fiercely.  "  You 
women  are  all  fools!  "  he  cried.  "  You  don't  know  what  sur- 
gery can  do  in  these  days;  it  is  marvelous,  and  the  bambino  is  so 
strong  that  everything  is  in  his  favor.  Put  on  more  bandages, 
Giacinta,  and  pull  them  tighter.  Oh,  Meurice,  Meurice,  make 
haste!  I  will  ride  Fiora  down  the  road  to  meet  him  and  he 
can  hurry  back  on  the  horse.  Do  you,  Armida,"  he  added, 
turning  to  the  girl,  "  run  to  the  top  of  the  tower  and  see  if  the 
padrone  is  coming.  Amore,  Amore,"  he  wailed  again,  as  he 
made  an  inclosure  of  his  arms  around  the  still  child,  "  thou  wilt 
soon  be  better,  yes,  yes  —  open  thine  eyes  and  look  at  thy 
father." 

"  Signore,"  said  Giacinta  again,  with  her  hand  once  more  on 
the  baby's  pulse,  "  do  not  rave ;  he  dies,  the  little  one ;  it  is  the 
will  of  God." 

"There  is  no  God,"  he  shrieked  wildly;  "no  heaven,  no 
hell;  there  is  only  my  son,  and  he  shall  not  die!  See,  he  re- 
vives ! " 

The  baby  stirred  slightly,  his  eyelids  moved,  and  the  drawn, 
pained  look  around  his  mouth  disappeared  as  he  gave  two  or 
three  little  gasps.  "  He  wants  water,  water;  give  me  water!  " 

*  Oh,   horror ! 


The  Spell  Works  227 

Carlotta  poured  some  into  a  tumbler  and  handed  it  to  him. 
Leone  put  the  glass  to  the  baby's  lips  but  he  only  made  bubbles 
in  it  but  could  not  swallow,  and  a  yellow  pallor  began  to  creep 
over  his  brow. 

Margaret  was  seated  at  the  foot  of  the  couch  watching  every 
change.  "  Dear  Leone,"  she  said,  "  do  you  not  see?  " 

But  he  answered  roughly,  "  Thou  hast  no  sense ;  I  tell  thee, 
Margherita,  my  child  shall  be  saved.  If  I  can  only  make  him 
take  it,  water  will  revive  him,"  and  he  tried  again  to  make  the 
baby  drink. 

"  The  water  of  baptism,"  said  Giacinta;  "  that  saves." 

"Baptize  your  child,"  said  Margaret,  "quick  —  quick!" 
Her  voice  rang  through  the  room;  it  was  a  command,  and 
Leone,  like  a  drowning  man  who  will  snatch  at  a  straw  and 
who  calls  upon  Heaven  when  all  earthly  help  fails,  stood  up, 
pressing  one  hand  to  his  heart  to  keep  it  from  bursting  and 
with  the  other  raised  the  glass.  He  looked  helplessly  around 
for  a  second,  as  if  trying  to  collect  his  scattered  senses. 
"  Amore,"  he  almost  whispered,  as  he  poured  the  water  three 
times  over  the  child's  head,  the  while  repeating  the  Latin  words, 
"  Ego  te  baptizo  in  nomine  Patris  —  e t  Filii  —  et  Spiritus 
Sancti." 

"  Amen"  said  the  four  women. 

Carlotta  received  the  glass  from  his  trembling  hand,  while  he 
bent  over,  pushing  the  wet  ringlets  from  the  little  one's  brow, 
and  instinctively  made  upon  his  forehead  the  sign  of  the  cross. 
Then  he  leaned  heavily  against  the  wall  for  support,  calmed 
and  awed  for  the  moment  by  his  own  solemn  action. 

All  were  silent.  Only  the  ticking  of  the  clock  could  be  heard. 
Outside  the  sun  was  setting  and  the  great  room  was  becoming 
shadowy.  Breathlessly  they  were  watching  the  soul  new-born 
into  spiritual  life,  who  would  answer  in  Heaven  to  the  name  of 
"  Love,"  and  as  they  watched,  the  yellow  pallor,  the  sign  of 
Death,  spread  more  and  more  over  the  exquisite  little  face,  and 
all  but  Leone  felt  the  Awful  Presence  in  their  midst.  He  had 


228  A  Cry  of  Youth 

fallen  upon  his  knees  again  and  was  entreating  the  child  to  look 
at  him.  And  it  seemed  as  if  the  baby  understood,  for  he  opened 
his  eyes  and  with  a  weak  movement  the  little  arms  went  out 
toward  his  father.  "  Amore"  Leone  whispered,  "  Amore  mio" 
and  his  look  of  anguish  changed  to  one  of  hope.  "  See,"  he 
whispered,  "  he  revives,  he  knows  me,"  as  the  half -closed  lids 
opened  wider  and  full  consciousness  returned ;  "  see,  he  revives, 
he  lives — "  but,  ah!  a  faint  tremor  went  through  the  small 
frame,  the  sweet  mouth  parted  in  a  smile,  and  the  now  wide- 
open  eyes  were  looking  straight  into  his. 

"  See,"  Leone  whispered  again,  "  he  knows  me  —  he  smiles 
at  me  —  he  — " 

"  He  is  dead,"  said  Margaret. 

"No,  no,  no!"  he  cried.  "Stand  out  of  the  light,  Car- 
lotta— " 

The  momentary  gleam  of  consciousness  was  gone  and  the 
eyes  met  his  gaze  in  a  glassy  stare.  He  shrank  back  from  the 
couch  with  a  piercing  cry ;  he  beat  his  head  against  the  wall  and 
tore  his  hair.  Carlotta  and  Lisa  retreated  in  terror.  Giacinta 
began  to  compose  the  baby's  limbs  and  rumpled  clothing,  and 
to  close  his  eyes,  while  Leone  continued  to  rave ;  then  he  rushed 
from  the  room  cursing  the  murderers  and  vowing  vengeance. 

"  He  is  mad,"  said  Giacinta,  looking  after  him.  "  Do  not 
mind  him,  Signora ;  he  will  be  himself  as  soon  as  the  first  shock 
is  over." 

But  Margaret  paid  no  attention.  She  had  sunk  into  a  chair, 
her  hands  pressed  tightly  on  top  of  her  head  as  if  to  keep  her 
brain  from  giving  way.  She  neither  wept  nor  spoke.  The 
wild  abandonment  of  Leone's  grief  had  silenced  her  own,  and 
it  was  all  so  sudden.  She  sat  like  one  turned  to  stone,  not  yet 
realizing  the  tragedy.  She  looked  round  the  room;  there  were 
the  flowers,  drooping  now,  that  she  had  gathered  to  welcome 
Fauvel,  and  there  was  the  crystal  bowl  that  she  had  ordered 
filled  with  water,  and  it  had  served  to  wash  the  mortal  wounds 
of  her  child.  Carlotta  tiptoed  over  to  her  and  placed  her  hand 


The  Spell  Works  229 

on  her  shoulder.  "  Cara  Signora,"  she  said,  "  my  heart  breaks 
for  you  and  the  Signore."  But  Margaret  paid  no  heed,  but 
watched  the  sand  run  through  the  hour-glass  that  she  had 
turned  when  she  first  came  down;  it  was  but  half  empty;  only 
thirty  minutes  ago  and  all  had  been  well. 

Fleurette  the  macaw,  that  happened  to  be  in  the  room  on  her 
gilt  stand,  had  been  very  quiet  during  the  excitement,  but  now 
she  began  to  chatter,  and  Margaret  wondered  dumbly  why  this 
gaudy,  soulless  creature  should  be  allowed  to  live,  when  life 
had  been  taken  from  her  joyous,  lovely  baby  boy. 

The  bird's  noise  irritated  her,  and  she  rose.  "  I  am  going  to 
my  room,"  she  said ;  "  I  am  very  tired,  I  want  to  lie  down." 

Giacinta  came  and  put  her  arm  about  her,  and  led  her  up  the 
stairs.  It  is  customary  in  Italy  for  the  family  to  retire  and 
leave  the  body  for  a  short  time,  almost  as  soon  as  life  has  ex- 
pired. 

They  had  all  gone  but  Carlotta.  She  glanced  at  the  little 
corpse.  '  'Tis  the  jettatura,"  she  murmured;  "  his  spell  works. 
I  told  la  Margherita  evil  would  happen,  and  she  laughed.  But 
thank  Heaven,  Belmonte  is  spared !  "  Then  crossing  herself, 
she  too  left,  not  wishing  to  stay  alone  with  Death. 

Margaret's  calm  was  unnatural,  and  Giacinta  was  worried. 
She  helped  her  into  a  dressing  gown,  loosened  her  long  thick 
hair,  brushed  and  braided  it,  and  Margaret  lay  on  the  lounge 
with  her  head  resting  in  Giacinta's  lap,  while  the  latter  bathed 
her  hot  temples.  She  would  take  nothing  to  eat  or  drink,  nor 
would  she  have  a  light.  She  lay  there  silent  in  her  paralyzed 
grief,  watching  the  stars  make  pin-points  in  her  windows. 
Then  there  was  a  step  in  Leone's  room  and  a  beam  of  light 
through  the  half-open  door ;  a  knock,  and  Fauvel  appeared  with 
a  candle.  She  started  up  and  tottered  toward  him.  "  You 
know,  Fauvel,"  she  asked;  "you  know — "  He  answered  very 
gently,  "  I  know,  my  child ;  I  know  — "  and  before  he  could 
put  out  his  arm  to  save  her,  she  had  fallen  at  his  feet. 


CHAPTER  XX 

THE  TOMB  ON  THE  MOUNTAIN 

"Oh,  the  price  was  high  that  those 'shoes  would  buy, 
Those  little  blue  unused  shoes!" 

When  Margaret  opened  her  eyes  dawn  was  breaking.  Fau- 
vel  was  standing  by  her  bedside.  She  awoke  dazed.  Once  be- 
fore in  the  cold  gray  morning  light  Fauvel  had  stood  there. 
"  Is  the  child  born,"  she  asked  faintly;  "  is  it  all  right?  " 

For  a  moment  there  was  no  reply;  then  he  said,  "  Go  to  sleep 
again,  Margherita;  you  need  rest,  you  have  been  ill  all  night." 
But  she  sat  up,  exclaiming:  "Oh,  no,  let  me  get  up!  How 
thankful  I  am  to  be  awake!  I  have  had  the  most  horrible 
dream,  the  most  frightful,  cruel  dream !  —  so  real,  so  awful ! 
It  was  all  about  the  baby  — " 

The  moment  had  arrived  that  he  had  been  dreading.  "  Mar- 
gherita," he  said,  "  when  the  little  one  was  born  you  were  very 
brave ;  can  you  be  brave  now  ?  " 

She  gave  him  one  quick,  searching  look.  "  O-oh,"  she  gasped, 
as  if  in  physical  pain,  "  it  is  true,  all  true!  Oh,  my  baby,  my 
baby!"  ' 

Never  in  his  life  had  Fauvel  felt  so  helpless.  Words  failed 
him.  What  could  he  say  to  comfort  her?  —  there  was  noth- 
ing. Knowing  her  constitution  and  mentality  as  he  did,  he 
thought  it  best  that  the  awakening  to  the  truth  should  be  imme- 
diate. 

"Where  is  he,"  she  moaned,  "my  baby?  —  I  want  to  see 
him!" 

"  In  there,"  Fauvel  replied,  pointing  to  the  next  room. 

"  Signora,  cara  mia,"  said  Giacinta,  "  had  you  not  better 
wait?" 

"  No,  no,"  she  said ;  "  give  me  my  wrapper,  please,  I  must  see 

230 


The  Tomb  on  the  Mountain      231 

him."  Then  to  Fauvel:  "  I  will  not  cry,  I  promise  you  I  will 
not  cry." 

"  You  may  cry  now  as  much  as  you  like,  ma  chere;  it  will  do 
you  good." 

At  the  door  between  the  rooms,  which  was  closed,  she  hesi- 
tated. "  Is  there  much  blood  ?  "  she  asked,  shuddering. 

"  There  is  no  blood,"  he  answered,  and  as  they  crossed  the 
threshold  she  grasped  his  hand.  "  I  have  never  seen  death  but 
once,"  she  faltered;  "that  was  when  my  father  died.  I  was 
very  young,  but  he  died  naturally." 

The  gray  dawn  was  coming  into  the  room,  Leone's  bed  had 
not  been  slept  in,  but  beside  it  stood  the  old  cradle,  and  in  it, 
fair  and  sweet  and  peaceful,  lay  the  little  one.  All  the  cruel 
blood-stains  had  been  washed  away  and  he  lay  between  snowy 
sheets,  dressed  in  a  fresh  night  slip,  but  very  pale  and  in  such 
deep,  deep  sleep. 

"  Precious  lamb,"  she  whispered,  "  oh,  precious  lamb!  "  She 
still  held  Fauvel's  hand  in  her  icy  one.  "  It  was  at  dawn  that 
I  first  saw  him,  do  you  remember?  But  what  a  draught  you 
have  him  in,"  she  continued  reproachfully.  All  the  windows 
were  open,  the  curtains  blowing  out  and  the  room  was  very 
chilly.  "  I  should  like  to  hold  him,  may  I  ?  "  She  asked  the 
question  timidly  and  nervously,  feeling  more  than  understand- 
ing the  separation  of  death  of  which  she  knew  so  little. 

"  You  may  hold  him  for  a  very  few  minutes,"  Fauvel  an- 
swered. 

She  took  him  up  very  tenderly.  "  How  heavy  he  has 
grown,"  she  said,  and  passing  the  foot  of  the  bed,  she  reached 
for  a  small  infant's  blanket  that  was  lying  there,  for  baby  was 
very  cold.  Then  she  sat  down  with  him.  She  lifted  the  little 
slip;  however  terrible  the  sight,  she  must  look,  but  the  clumsy 
blood-soaked  bandages  that  she  and  Giacinta  had  put  on  were 
gone  and  the  little  limbs  were  neatly  bound  in  clean  swaddling- 
bands,  just  as  they  used  to  be  in  his  early  infancy.  Then  she 
put  the  blanket  over  him  and  held  him  close. 


232  A  Cry  of  Youth 

In  every  crisis  of  her  life  her  mother  and  sister  had  been 
paramount  in  her  mind.  She  thought  of  them  now.  There 
was  a  look  in  that  still  little  face  that  reminded  her  of  Jose- 
phine. She  had  always  vaguely  hoped  that  the  time  might 
come  when  she  would  be  able  to  acknowledge  her  child  and 
show  them  this  lovely  Italian  flower,  that  had  their  blood  in  his 
veins.  But  now  that  would  never  be. 

"  Where  would  you  like  him  buried  ?  "  Fauvel  asked.  "  It  is 
a  hard  question,  I  know,  but  one  that  must  be  settled  at  once." 

"  In  the  garden,  I  think.  He  loved  to  play  there  with  the 
birds  and  butterflies.  Where  is  Leone?"  she  asked  suddenly. 
"  He  went  mad  when  this  happened.  Poor  Leone !  " 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  said  Fauvel.  "  He  is  asleep  now,  over  in 
my  apartments.  I  gave  him  something  that  will  keep  him 
asleep  for  several  hours  yet.  When  he  awakes  he  will  be 
calmer." 

"  Fauvel,"  she  said,  looking  down  at  the  child  again,  "  Leone 
was  sure  you  could  have  saved  him  if  you  had  been  here?  " 

"  Leone  was  mistaken,  ma  chere;  when  I  examined  the 
wounds  I  knew  that  nothing  could  have  been  done.  He  had 
lost  too  much  blood  between  the  foot  of  the  hill  and  the  long 
distance  up  to  the  house.  But  he  did  not  suffer ;  let  that  com- 
fort you.  He  died  of  weakness,  and  it  came  so  suddenly  he  did 
not  even  have  time  to  be  frightened;  he  knew  no  fear.  Your 
baby  has  never  known  anything  but  happiness,  safety  and  love. 
Thrice  happy  child." 

" Amore,  Amore"  she  whispered.  It  was  her  child's  right- 
ful name  now;  Leone,  in  his  frenzy  of  yesterday,  when  he  had 
baptized  him,  could  think  of  no  other.  It  would  be  on  no 
parish  register,  but  the  angels  would  record  it  in  the  Book  of 
Life. 

Then  Fauvel  said  she  must  put  the  baby  down,  and  she  laid 
him  back  in  the  cradle,  covering  him  with  the  blanket  and  shiv- 
ering as  she  did  so,  for  he  was  so  cold  that  she  was  chilled ;  then 
she  allowed  herself  to  be  led  into  her  own  room. 


The  Tomb  on  the  Mountain      233 

A  thick  mist  enveloped  the  mountain  all  day,  and  Leone, 
finding  the  gloom  of  the  castle  unbearable,  wandered  outside. 
When  he  awakened  from  his  long  sleep  he  was  quieter  and 
more  self-controlled,  even  when  the  pain  of  his  loss  rushed  back 
to  his  heart,  poignant  as  steel.  He  had  worn  himself  out  with 
the  violence  of  his  grief,  and  to-day  he  was  exhausted,  be- 
numbed. So  he  walked  listlessly  about  the  grounds,  uncon- 
scious that  the  mist  had  turned  into  a  drizzling  rain  as  he  wan- 
dered from  the  ramparts  to  the  garden,  where  he  stumbled 
across  Beppo  and  Illario  the  driver,  with  spades  in  their  hands 
digging  an  oblong  hole. 

"  What  do  you  do  there?  "  he  asked  abruptly. 

"  Alas,  signore,  we  prepare  the  grave,"  answered  Illario. 

"  Stop  it  at  once,"  he  said.  His  eyes  were  red  and  blood- 
shot and  his  features  swollen  from  hours  of  weeping.  "  Stop  it, 
I  say!" 

The  men  stopped  and  leaned  over  their  spades.  Illario 
looked  at  Beppo  and  Beppo  at  Illario.  All  the  servants  knew 
that  the  Signor  Belmonte  was  a  little  bit  "  witched  "  on  the 
subject  of  his  child,  and  the  two  men  had  heard  how  he  went 
"  clean  out  of  his  mind  "  yesterday  when  the  bambino  breathed 
his  last.  Then  Illario  ventured :  "  It  is  by  order  of  the  pa- 
drone, signore." 

"  That  is  nothing  to  me,"  said  Leone.  "  The  child  shall  not 
lie  there."  Then  he  went  into  the  house  and  sought  Margaret. 

"  Is  it  thy  wish,  carissima,  that  the  little  one  should  be  buried 
in  the  garden  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  thought  it  would  be  a  comfort  to  have  him  near  us  al- 
ways," she  answered.  "  Fauvel-  says  there  are  regular  burial 
vaults  in  the  crypt  under  the  chapel,  but  I  can't  bear  to  put  him 
down  there  in  the  damp  and  cold.  I  would  rather  he  should 
lie  in  the  sunshine,  with  the  flowers." 

"  I  too,  Margherita;  but  not  here.  I  should  never  go  into 
the  garden  again ;  I  should  never  willingly  look  out  upon  it 
from  the  windows;  it  would  be  a  constant  reminder  of  the 


234  A  Cry  of  Youth 

horror;  I  could  not  endure  it.  Leave  it  to  me,  I  know  of  a 
spot,  a  long  way  from  here,  an  enchanted,  fairy  place,  so  beauti- 
ful it  is,  where  the  birds  sing  and  the  sun  shines  and  the  flowers 
grow.  He  shall  lie  there.  We  will  tell  no  one  but  Fauvel; 
we  will  rise  early  to-morrow  morning  and  take  him  away  by 
ourselves." 

A  little  later  Fauvel  returned  from  the  village,  where  he 
had  been  trying  to  find  out  something  about  the  men  who  were 
responsible  for  the  death  of  the  child.  He  could  not  learn 
much.  An  automobile  had  come  speeding  through  the  village 
about  half-past  six  on  the  afternoon  of  the  previous  day,  having 
two  occupants,  strangers;  one  of  these  had  been  wounded  in 
the  right  arm  "  by  a  stray  shot,"  he  said,  "  while  passing  over 
the  mountain."  They  had  stopped  at  the  apothecary's,  who  had 
done  what  he  could  for  him,  but  it  was  an  ugly  wound  and 
needed  the  inmediate  attention  of  a  surgeon  to  probe  for  the 
bullet,  and  they  had  driven  off  again,  speeding  to  Fossato. 
Fauvel  had  sent  a  messenger  reporting  the  accident  to  the  Dep- 
uty Prefect  there,  asking  that  the  men  be  apprehended.  And 
yet  he  could  not  help  thinking  that  if  they  were  caught  trouble 
must  arise  for  Leone. 

"  When  I  made  it  possible  for  you  to  procure  a  license  to 
carry  fire-arms,  I  did  not  expect  you  to  put  your  pistol  in  your 
pocket  every  day,  as  you  would  put  on  a  collar,"  said  Fauvel 
to  him. 

"  I  am  not  afraid  of  them,"  he  returned.  "  I  long  to  be 
brought  face  to  face  with  them,  and  then  I  will  finish  what  I 
have  begun,  and  revenge  my  son.  I  only  wish  my  bullet  had 
been  mortal." 

"  Signore,"  said  Carlotta,  "  it  is  better  as  it  is.  Let  us  hope 
that  the  wretch  may  suffer  forever  with  a  wound  that  will  not 
heal,  or  perhaps  lose  his  arm;  that  would  be  fine  revenge.  If 
you  had  killed  him  outright  he  would  not  have  suffered,  but  to 
have  him  maimed  for  life  —  oh,  that  is  good !  "  then,  turning 
to  Margaret:  "  Do  you  not  think  so,  signora?  " 


The  Tomb  on  the  Mountain      235 

"  I  cannot  think  about  that  part  of  it,"  Margaret  said 
wearily;  "whatever  happens  cannot  give  me  back  my  baby." 

The  news  of  the  tragedy  had  spread  throughout  the  village 
and  had  even  reached  the  peasants  on  the  mountain.  In  the 
lonely  spot  that  had  scarcely  changed  in  a  thousand  years  each 
day  was  the  same  as  yesterday,  therefore  any  bit  of  gossip  or 
an  event  that  was  out  of  the  ordinary  was  carried  from  one 
dwelling  to  another,  the  inhabitants  often  leaving  important 
work  to  walk  a  mile  or  so  that  they  might  have  the  delight  of 
imparting  the  news  to  their  neighbors.  The  beauty  of  the 
Bambino  Belmonte  had  been  much  talked  of  by  those  who  had 
seen  him,  and  Fauvel  was  almost  worshipped  among  them,  for 
he  was  always  ready  to  minister  to  them  when  their  illnesses 
got  beyond  their  own  remedies.  He  had  set  broken  limbs, 
dressed  wounds,  cured  persistent  ailments,  often  supplying  the 
medicines  himself,  and  sometimes  sending  nourishing  food. 

So  in  spite  of  the  fog  and  the  rain  they  climbed  from  their 
hovels  to  the  castle,  timidly  making  their  way  around  the  old 
fortress  —  some  of  them  had  never  been  up  to  it  before  —  until 
they  found  the  kitchen  yard,  there  to  express  through  the  serv- 
ants their  grief  and  sympathy  for  the  family  of  the  "  lllustris- 
simo  Professore  Dottore"  for  they  believed  the  Belmontes  to 
be  relations  of  Fauvel,  and  to  offer  their  services  in  hunting 
down  the  murderers  of  his  nephew's  son.  "  The  angelino," 
they  said,  "  the  little  innocent  one,"  might  they  be  allowed  to 
say  a  prayer  at  the  bier  of  the  dead  child  ?  These  requests  be- 
came so  numerous  that  the  body  was  taken  downstairs  by 
Clemente  and  Giacinta,  and  laid  out  in  the  great  central  hall. 

Margaret  would  have  preferred  keeping  her  baby  near  her 
for  these  last  hours,  but  Fauvel  was  very  indulgent  with  the 
peasants  and  Leone  seemed  pleased  with  the  idea.  Shortly 
afterward  she  went  to  a  window  in  the  corridor  on  a  floor 
above  that  looked  down  into  that  vast  room  and  saw  her  child 
lying  in  state  as  a  noble  prince.  Tall  candles  burned  at  his 
head  and  feet,  he  was  partially  covered  with  a  pale  blue  pall 


236  A  Cry  of  Youth 

which  in  its  day  had  been  very  costly;  now  it  was  faded  and 
worn,  the  gold  thread  of  its  embroidery  tarnished  with  age. 
Clemente  and  Illario  in  their  Sunday  clothes  were  standing 
guard  at  a  respectful  distance  as  the  humble  visitors  came  and 
went,  some  bringing  tawdry  paper  flowers  which  they  laid  be- 
side the  bier. 

It  all  went  against  Margaret;  but  Leone,  who  had  joined 
her,  looked  down  with  a  sort  of  sad  satisfaction  as  he  whispered 
with  a  touch  of  pride,  "  It  is  as  it  should  be;  there  is  no  honor 
too  great  for  our  son.  It  is  fitting  for  an  Estori."  The  irony 
of  it  struck  her:  the  tiny  corpse  arrayed  with  so  much  ostenta- 
tion, that  had  been  born  in  shame,  nurtured  on  the  bounty  of 
Fauvel  and  struck  down  like  a  worthless  thing  that  encumbered 
the  highway,  and  was  now  the  object  of  curiosity  to  a  few 
illiterate  peasants,  and  yet  this  parody  of  homage  pleased  its 
father.  There  is  something  in  the  Italian  that  adores  form 
and  ceremony  and  ostentatious  setting,  and  if  poor  Leone  could 
find  balm  for  his  aching  heart  in  what  to  her  was  only  a  pa- 
thetic farce  she  would  say  nothing  to  spoil  the  illusion. 

Again  just  at  dawn  Margaret  stood  by  her  child.  She  and 
Leone  had  risen  while  it  was  yet  dark  and  had  come  down  to 
relieve  Giacinta  and  old  Santoni,  who  had  been  keeping  the 
watch  since  midnight. 

Margaret  had  dressed  herself,  as  when  going  on  long  ram- 
bles with  Leone,  in  a  short  woolen  skirt  and  high  boots.  She 
had  a  wee  pillow  tucked  under  her  arm.  Leone  lifted  the  child 
while  Margaret  folded  the  blue  velvet  pall  tenderly  around 
him;  then  they  stole  softly  out,  leaving  the  tall  candles  burn- 
ing, and  casting  long  fantastic  shadows  of  their  two  figures  on 
the  high  walls. 

On  they  went  through  dark  corridors,  past  silent  rooms,  down 
a  winding  stair  and  across  the  kitchen  yard,  until  they  came  to 
a  small  door  in  the  outer  wall  that  opened  directly  on  the  moun- 
tain. The  waning  moon  was  dipping  in  the  valley  and  in  the 
East  shone  one  pale  star.  Leone  led  the  way,  Margaret  fol- 


The  Tomb  on  the  Mountain      237 

lowing.  He  plunged  straight  into  the  woods  where  there  was 
a  foot  path. 

Margaret  had  never  before  been  out  so  early.  A  strange 
hush  pervaded  everything.  It  was  very  dark  in  the  woods  and 
the  path  was  rough;  she  stumbled  once  or  twice  and  Leone 
placed  his  burden  on  his  left  arm  and  took  her  hand.  She  no- 
ticed that  he  had  his  revolver  in  his  pocket. 

The  walk  seemed  long  to  her,  and  neither  of  them  had 
spoken  since  leaving  the  castle;  they  were  now  going  downhill, 
quite  away  from  Rocca  Serrata;  then  he  told  her  that  the  spot 
he  had  selected  for  the  burial  was  on  the  other  side  of  the 
mountain.  As  they  proceeded  a  slight  stir  began  in  the  foliage, 
an  almost  imperceptible  flutter  of  that  part  of  creation  which 
always  greets  the  dawn;  there  was  a  scamper  of  soft  invisible 
feet  and  a  rustling  in  the  branches,  and  when  at  length  they 
came  out  upon  a  fine  smooth  road  a  fox  bounded  ahead  of  them 
and  a  belated  bat  passed  so  near  that  its  horrible  wings  brushed 
her  cheek  before  it  disappeared  into  the  thicket. 

Leone  turned  up  the  road,  walking  steadily  on  with  his  face 
set  as  one  who  has  a  hard  task  to  perform  and  must  not  weaken, 
and  Margaret  followed  him,  until  finally  they  came  to  a  place 
where  the  road  widened.  On  one  side  was  a  precipice,  a  drop 
of  nearly  a  hundred  feet,  and  on  the  other  towering  rocks  which 
formed  a  sort  of  a  semicircle  around  a  lovely  grassy  dell.  Above 
the  rocks  grew  lofty  pines  and  the  air  was  sweet  with  the  aro- 
matic scent  of  resin.  A  stream  of  water,  clear  as  crystal,  ran 
down  with  a  musical  sound  between  the  giant  boulders  and 
flowed  into  a  reservoir  of  its  own  formation,  making  a  natural 
fountain ;  opposite  the  stream,  hollowed  out  of  the  living  rock, 
was  a  small  space  so  smooth  and  even  that  it  seemed  almost  as 
if  hewn  by  the  hand  of  man.  Margaret  knew  at  once  that 
they  had  reached  the  spot. 

"Oh,  how  beautiful,"  she  said;  "how  restful  and  peace- 
ful!" 

"  What  we  have  to  do  let  us  do  quickly,"  Leone  said. 


238  A  Cry  of  Youth 

She  sat  down  on  a  large  flat  stone  and  Leone,  putting  the 
child  in  her  lap,  began  his  work.  He  climbed  the  rock  and 
with  his  hand  carefully  brushed  away  a  few  pine  needles  that 
had  blown  inside.  Then  he  collected  a  heap  of  rock  fragments 
and  used  his  pocket  knife  to  uproot  some  juniper  sprigs  and 
myrtle.  This  done,  he  took  the  little  body  from  Margaret's 
arms  and  laying  it  beside  her  upon  the  flat  stone,  opened  the 
velvet  covering.  "  Amore"  he  said,  as  he  gazed  upon  it  with 
a  breaking  heart,  "Amore  mio!" 

"  Precious  lamb,"  whispered  Margaret,  "  oh,  precious  lamb!  " 

Was  this  rigid,  silent,  waxen  thing  their  happy,  rosy,  laughing 
baby  of  two  days  ago?  The  sweet  cherubic  features,  chiseled 
and  so  white,  reminded  its  father  more  than  ever  of  the  "  Eros  " 
hidden  under  the  old  convent  on  the  Palatine.  He  remembered 
when  his  own  child  had  come  with  its  striking  resemblance  it 
seemed  as  if  the  work  of  the  ancient  Greek  sculptor  had  been 
transformed  into  flesh  and  blood;  now  it  had  changed  back 
again  into  marble.  He  stooped  and  kissed  a  forehead  scarcely 
less  cold  than  the  little  statue  and  as  still. 

"  Come,"  he  said  quickly,  as  he  lifted  it  in  his  arms,  but  Mar- 
garet stopped  him.  "  Let  me  make  his  bed,"  she  pleaded;  "  I 
know  how  to  make  him  comfortable,  wait  just  a  minute." 

She  dug  up  lumps  of  moss  and  lined  the  space  until  she  had 
formed  a  soft  mattress;  then  she  took  the  blue  velvet  pall  and 
laid  it  over  the  moss,  placing  the  little  pillow  at  the  head. 
"  Now,"  she  said,  "  it  is  ready.  Let  me  kiss  him.  Sleep,  pre- 
cious lamb,"  she  murmured,  "  the  angels  are  with  you."  And 
Leone,  after  straining  the  little  form  to  his  heart  in  one  last, 
desperate  embrace,  laid  him  gently  within. 

Together  they  folded  the  pall  over  and  about  him,  then  they 
piled  up  the  stones  Leone  had  gathered,  building  a  solid  wall, 
setting  in  between  them  the  plants  that  Leone  had  just  up- 
rooted. Then  going  to  the  fountain  they  made  cups  of  their 
hands,  watered  them,  and  stood  looking  at  their  work.  In  a 
few  days  the  plants  would  begin  to  grow  and  the  myrtle  would 


The  Tomb  on  the  Mountain      239 

spread  a  curtain  of  greenery  over  the  crevices  and  no  one  would 
suspect  that  it  veiled  a  beloved  child,  sleeping  his  last  long 
sleep. 

"  Come,"  said  Leone,  after  a  moment,  "  there  is  nothing  more 
we  can  do  for  him ;  let  us  go."  But  Margaret  dropped  on  her 
knees  before  the  little  tomb.  "  Precious  Lamb,"  she  whispered, 
"  little  white,  slaughtered  lamb,  ask  a  pardon  for  your  parents." 
Then  she  rose  and  followed  him. 

"  When  the  sun  comes  up,"  she  thought,  "  the  butterflies  will 
come  and  the  birds,  and  he  will  not  be  lonely."  For  her  heart 
was  torn  at  leaving  him  all  alone  out  on  the  mountain;  she 
would  have  wished  him  in  the  garden.  Leone  was  waiting  for 
her,  and  putting  his  arm  around  her,  they  walked  out  of  the 
glen  and  down  the  road  in  silence.  The  dreadful  task  was 
over  now,  there  was  no  longer  any  need  to  nerve  himself,  and 
Margaret  felt  the  arm  that  was  about  her  relaxing  its  hold. 

"  Tesoro,"  he  said,  and  his  voice  was  choking,  "  we  have  put 
the  bambino  —  to  sleep  —  for  —  the  —  last  time ;  non  e  ver?  " 
and  laying  his  head  on  her  shoulder  he  burst  into  tears. 

The  slight  girl  supported  the  strong  man  who  leaned  his 
weight  upon  her  and  the  burden  of  his  heart,  his  broad  shoul- 
ders shaking  and  his  whole  frame  convulsed  with  sobs. 

"  Leone,  dearest,  dearest,"  she  said,  "  the  little  one  will  wake 
again  some  day."  She  put  her  arms  tight  around  him  and  tried 
to  soothe  him.  "  There,  dearest,  there  — "  as  if  she  were  talk- 
ing to  a  child,  "  the  bambino  is  safe  and  happy,  only  we  are 
sad." 

"  If  —  he  —  had  died,"  he  moaned,  "  I  could  bear  it  better; 
but  when  he  was  killed  —  by  heartless,  cruel  men  — " 

Margaret  was  in  despair.  It  was  terrible  to  see  Leone  give 
way  to  his  grief.  Close  by  was  a  weather-beaten  shrine  which 
she  had  not  perceived  in  the  faint,  gray  light  when  they  first 
came  to  the  spot.  It  was  a  figure  of  the  "  Pieta"  so  commonly 
seen  and  loved  in  Italy  —  the  Virgin  Mother  holding  the  dead 
Christ  in  her  arms. 


240  A  Cry  of  Youth 

"  Look,  dearest,"  she  said,  "  over  there  is  one  whose  only 
Son  was  killed,  also  by  cruel  men ;  she  knows  what  you  suffer." 

Leone,  in  all  his  loss  of  faith  and  in  his  agnosticism,  had 
always  retained  a  sort  of  childish  love  and  veneration  for  the 
Blessed  Virgin.  Now,  forgetful  of  his  boast  that  he  had  cast 
all  religion  aside,  he  let  Margaret  lead  him  to  the  shrine  and 
unconsciously  crossed  himself,  as  he  knelt  beside  her,  and  the 
old  words  came  to  his  lips,  "  Sancta  Maria,  Mater  Dei " ;  then 
he  poured  out  his  soul:  "  He  was  so  little,  Mother,  so  helpless 
and  innocent.  He  was  happy  as  a  bird  and  lovely  as  the  flow- 
ers, and  they  killed  him,  killed  him!  And  now  he  is  only  a 
dead,  crushed  thing,  which  we  have  hidden  away  in  the  rocks! 
But  do  thou,  Mother,  take  care  of  him ;  he  will  not  know  what 
to  do  without  us  and  he  was  always  shy  — "  and  more  and  more 
he  told,  all  the  sadness  of  his  heart  flowing  out  at  the  feet  of 
the  Mother  of  Sorrows,  who  seemed  to  know  his  pain.  Mar- 
garet slipped  away,  feeling  that  not  even  she  must  hear. 

There  are  some  people  in  the  world  who  scoff  at  the  wayside 
shrines.  "Tear  them  down,"  they  cry;  "rank  fosterers  of 
idolatry !  "  But,  thank  God,  there  are  only  some.  The  way- 
side shrine  with  its  mute  teaching  has  saved  the  faith  of  more 
men  and  women  than  the  world  dreams  of. 

Gradually  Leone's  sobs  ceased.  He  was  not  kneeling  now; 
he  had  thrown  himself  forward,  his  head  on  his  arm,  and  was 
resting. 

Two  mounted  carbineers  on  patrol  duty  passed  them,  looked 
at  the  prostrate  figure  before  the  shrine  and  at  the  girl  in  the 
road  and  took  them  for  the  better  class  of  peasants,  as  Mar- 
garet was  hatless,  with  a  scarf  thrown  over  her  head  and  wear- 
ing a  short  skirt,  and  Leone,  dressed  in  his  old  brown  knee 
breeches  and  velveteen  jacket.  Some  lovers'  quarrel,  they  sup- 
posed, and  the  man  was  penitent  now,  swearing  before  the 
Madonna  that  he  would  never  strike  his  sweetheart  again ;  but 
the  girl  was  a  dainty  bit  to  be  left  too  long  unattended  on  the 
highway ;  he  had  better  rouse  himself  and  look  after  her.  When 


The  Tomb  on  the  Mountain      241 

they  had  gone  Margaret  came  back  to  him;  she  was  greatly 
fatigued  and  they  had  a  long  walk  before  them.  "  Come, 
dearest,"  she  said.  He  raised  his  head,  and  seeming  to  have 
forgotten  where  he  was,  took  her  outstretched  hand  and  rose 
to  his  feet. 

They  walked  up  the  road  for  a  time,  then  entered  the  woods 
now  all  astir.  Birds  were  twittering,  happy  squirrels  bounded 
from  tree  to  tree,  young  hares  ran  nimbly  across  their  path ;  all 
rejoicing  in  their  life,  but  the  man  and  woman  in  their  midst 
each  thought  of  another  little  being  who  awoke  like  them  at 
dawn,  rejoicing  as  they,  now  cold  and  still.  On  emerging  from 
the  dense  shades,  they  were  almost  blinded  by  the  sunlight. 

When  they  returned  to  the  castle  Margaret  was  so  exhausted 
that  after  taking  the  breakfast  Lisa  had  brought  to  her  room 
she  had  thrown  herself  upon  the  lounge  and  fallen  into  a  heavy 
sleep  which  lasted  until  mid-day.  She  was  awakened  by  a 
noise. 

"  What  are  you  doing,  Leone?  "  she  asked. 

Drawers  and  chests  stood  open  with  the  appearance  of  having 
been  ransacked;  on  the  floor  was  a  sheet  filled  with  various 
articles  which  he  was  about  to  tie  into  a  pack.  She  caught 
sight  of  small  garments,  a  little  wooden  cart,  a  woolly  dog,  a 
rag  doll,  a  string  of  spools,  little  socks  and  shoes  and  caps  — 
everything,  in  fact,  that  had  belonged  to  their  child,  or  that  he 
had  ever  used. 

"  What  are  you  doing?  "  she  repeated. 

"  I  am  collecting  his  toys  and  clothes,"  Leone  made  answer; 
"  I  am  taking  them  away." 

''Where?" 

"  Where  I  shall  never  see  them  again,"  he  replied,  as  he  took 
up  the  corners  of  the  sheet  and  began  to  tie  them. 

"  Oh,  don't  do  that !  "  she  cried ;  "  I  made  all  those  clothes, 
Giacinta  and  I;  they  are  good,  and  I  want  his  toys.  He  loved 
his  little  cart ;  he  was  just  learning  to  fill  it  with  grass,  and  that 
fur  kitten  Carlotta  gave  him,  he  loved  that,  too;  he  took  it  to 


242  A  Cry  of  Youth 

sleep  with  him.  Oh,  Leone,  for  pity's  sake,  what  are  you 
going  to  do?"  She  rose  from  the  couch  and  looked  into  the 
pile.  "  Oh,"  she  cried,  "  you  have  his  powder-box  there,  his 
own  little  mug  —  everything,  everything!  " 

"  Hush,  hush,"  he  said,  as  he  knotted  the  four  corners  se- 
curely; "hush,  Tesoro,  I  have  taken  everything  on  purpose;  I 
will  lose  my  mind  unless  I  can  forget,  and  these  things  will 
forever  remind  me." 

"  Then  let  us  give  his  little  clothes  to  the  poor;  there  is  many 
a  child  suffering  for  them." 

"  Do  you  think  I  would  ever  see  another  child  in  what  my 
son  has  worn  ?  No,  car'mima,  you  shall  have  all  my  next  mag- 
azine money  to  give  to  the  poor,  only  do  not  hinder  me  now; 
I  must  forget  —  forget." 

"  You  are  certainly  crazy,"  she  said,  "  and  I  think  you  are 
cruel  to  take  away  his  things  —  you  shall  not  do  it  — " 

He  had  the  pack  on  his  shoulder  by  this  time,  and  was  leaving 
the  room.  Margaret  hastily  slipped  on  her  boots,  and  followed 
him.  He  was  not  to  be  seen,  but  she  could  hear  his  echoing 
footsteps  upon  the  stone  floor  of  the  corridor;  yet  he  kept  some 
distance  ahead  of  her,  and  reaching  the  outer  door  she  saw  him 
making  his  way  toward  the  ruins.  She  redoubled  her  steps 
and  hurried  after  him.  He  stopped  near  a  pile  of  brushwood. 
She  supposed  that  he  was  going  to  throw  the  sheet  and  its 
contents  down  the  bottomless  well  and  ran  as  quickly  as  she 
could.  She  saw  him  stoop  down  and  do  something  and  then 
there  was  smoke  and  a  crackling.  He  had  set  the  bundle  on 
fire! 

"  Oh !  oh !  "  she  cried,  bounding  to  the  spot,  "  what  a  dread- 
ful thing  to  do !  Oh !  you  have  no  right  to  do  this ;  his  things 
are  mine  as  much  as  yours,  oh,  I  shall  have  nothing  left  of  my 
baby!  "  She  tried  to  draw  the  pack  toward  her,  but  he  had 
built  a  ring  of  dried  twigs  around  it  and  the  smoke  was  so  thick 
it  blinded  her. 

"  Hush,  Tesoro,  cara  mia"  was  all  he  said,  as  he  threw  on 


The  Tomb  on  the  Mountain      243 

the  brushwood  and  watched  the  lapping  flames  grow  bigger. 
"  I  must  have  everything  destroyed,  everything." 

Just  then  the  pile  seemed  to  ignite  all  at  once,  a  great  flame 
shot  upward  and  the  sheet  burst  open  and  from  out  of  it  fell 
a  tiny  kid  shoe,  the  first  the  child  had  ever  worn,  that  Margaret 
had  made  herself  and  cross-stitched  with  blue  silk.  The  little 
shoe  fell  at  her  feet,  unperceived  by  Leone.  She  snatched  it 
eagerly  and  holding  it  tightly  to  her  heart  fled  away,  back  to 
the  house  and  up  to  her  own  room  and  there,  throwing  herself 
once  more  upon  the  lounge,  the  tears  that  had  been  so  long 
denied  her,  came  at  last,  and  she  kissed  the  little  shoe  again 
and  again  as  she  sobbed  aloud. 

And  Leone,  over  by  the  ruins,  with  a  stony  expression,  stood 
watching  his  work  of  destruction.  The  corners  of  the  sheet 
curled  up  and  burned  like  paper  to  ashes,  also  the  small  gar- 
ments, made  with  so  much  care.  The  rapacious  flames  next 
caught  the  wooden  cart,  that  only  two  days  ago  the  bambino 
had  pulled  after  him,  the  rag  doll,  the  toy  kitten,  a  miniature 
brush  and  comb  and  a  painted  powder  box  —  all  went,  until 
there  was  nothing  more  for  the  fire  to  consume.  Then  the 
flames  died  out  and  he  looked  at  what  was  left,  a  charred, 
smouldering,  blackened  mass.  He  took  a  stick  and  stirred  the 
debr's.  Something  white  caught  his  eye ;  he  picked  it  up ;  what 
was  it  ? 

A  wee,  soft  shoe,  made  of  a  glove,  stitched  in  blue  and  kicked 
out  at  the  toes;  it  was  just  a  little  charred  on  one  side.  How 
did  it  manage  to  escape  the  flames?  He  could  not  tell,  the 
only  thing  left !  For  a  moment  the  tears  glistened  in  his  eyes, 
but  he  dashed  them  away.  With  a  quick,  desperate  gesture  he 
pressed  it  to  his  lips  and  then  thrust  it  in  his  bosom. 


CHAPTER   XXI 

THE  GLOOM  OF  THE  WINTER 

Forth  from  the  wind-swept  country  of  my  heart, 

Fly  fast  swift  wings; 

From  thence  the  summers  and  their  suns  depart, 
Here  no  bird  sings. 

MOULTON. 

The  picture  of  "  Springtime  "  was  never  finished. 

From  the  first  Fauvel  had  been  dissatisfied  with  the  work. 
Carlotta  had  never  been  his  ideal  of  the  female  figure,  and 
Leone,  after  the  death  of  the  baby,  kept  a  look  of  stony 
despondency  that  was  "  impossible  "  for  "  Springtime." 

Leone  shed  no  more  tears,  but  Margaret  could  not  cease 
weeping.  There  was  not  a  trace  of  the  little  one  left;  what- 
ever had  escaped  Leone's  grasp  when  he  made  the  funeral  pyre 
of  the  child's  effects,  had  been  spirited  away  by  him  afterwards. 
The  old  gilded  cradle  was  again  relegated  to  the  forgotten 
lumber  room  far  off  in  another  part  of  the  castle,  and  all  that 
remained  to  Margaret  of  her  baby  was  one  little  shoe,  which 
she  kept  hidden  safely  where  he  would  never  find  it.  Also  her 
conscience  troubled  her.  Had  she  been  a  good  mother?  she 
asked  herself,  had  she  loved  her  child  as  a  mother  should? 
Leone  had  openly  accused  her  of  lacking  motherly  love,  and 
she  had  intuitively  felt  that  the  others  agreed. 

Oh,  if  she  could  have  him  back!  She  would  take  him  proudly 
in  her  arms  and  let  come  who  might  she  would  say,  "  Yes,  he 
is  mine,  my  love,  my  own  son !  " 

"  You  will  injure  your  eyes,"  Fauvel  said  to  her  at  last, 
then  took  her  to  his  apartment  and  put  some  cooling  drops  into 
them.  "  Do  not  ciy  any  more,  ma  chere.  The  little  one  never 
had  a  pang  or  a  sorrow,  he  never  had  a  sick  day,  he  knew 
nothing  but  happiness,  devoted  care  and  love  —  - '  Amore.' 

244 


The  Gloom  of  the  Winter       245 

Love  he  was  surrounded  with,  and  '  Love  '  he  was.  You  have 
yourself  to  think  of  and  Leone,  and  if  you  care  at  all  for  me, 
stop  the  tears  now,  for  I  do  not  like  to  see  your  sweet  face 
disfigured." 

So  Margaret  dried  her  eyes  and  like  Leone  wept  no  more, 
but  in  her  heart  was  continual  self-reproach  and  sadness.  And 
Fauvel,  watching  her  closely,  realized  that  some  change  must 
be  made;  she  needed  diversion  and  gaiety  and  he  intended  she 
should  have  both.  She  had  stood  the  test  he  had  prepared  for 
her,  the  test  of  her  love  for  Leone,  a  long  severe  trial,  and  she 
had  come  through  the  fire  like  pure  gold. 

This  year  he  was  going  to  Paris,  Vienna,  and  home  to 
Brussels;  he  had  a  full  and  busy  winter  planned;  it  would  be 
six  or  seven  months  before  he  should  be  again  in  Italy  and  if  he 
found  them  as  devoted  upon  his  return,  then  the  welfare  and 
future  of  the  Belmontes  should  be  his  first  consideration.  But 
he  said  nothing  of  this  to  them,  as  he  did  not  believe  in  talking 
until  he  was  ready  to  act. 

Nothing  further  could  be  learned  about  the  men  in  the  auto- 
mobile. But  Leone,  thirsting  for  revenge,  did  not  give  up  his 
idea  of  some  day  finding  them,  and  went  constantly  to  the  village 
and  other  mountain  hamlets,  telling  his  story  over,  making 
inquiries  and  inciting  the  peasants  to  a  hatred  of  automobiles. 
Also  he  was  bent  upon  punishing  the  dwarf  who  he  declared 
had  been  the  evil  genius  in  the  destruction  of  his  child. 

Carlotta  encouraged  him  in  his  wild  vagaries.  Shortly  after 
the  tragedy  Giacinta  left.  Her  sick  brother  had  written  beg- 
ging her  to  return,  so  she  parted  from  Margaret  with  kisses 
and  tears,  promising  to  return  as  soon  as  she  could  be  spared. 

Carlotta,  after  much  reflection  as  to  whether  she  would  cancel 
her  concert  engagements  and  spend  the  winter  between  her 
father's  humble  home  and  the  castle,  in  order  to  be  near  Bel- 
monte,  came  to  the  conclusion  that  it  would  be  the  height  of 
folly  to  lose  so  much  good  money !  Belmonte  would  be  there 
in  the  spring  and  she  could  cut  her  season  short,  if  she  became 


246  A  Cry  of  Youth 

impatient  to  see  him;  therefore  she,  too,  departed,  and  lastly 
Fauvel. 

After  Leone  and  Margaret  were  left  alone  Rocca  Serrata 
seemed  indeed  deserted;  but  Leone  did  his  best  to  rouse  and 
cheer  Margaret,  for  he  too  suffered  from  conscience.  He  had 
been  selfish  in  his  monopoly  of  the  little  one,  "  enormously  self- 
ish," as  Fauvel  had  said,  and  the  latter  had  also  told  him  that  he 
had  done  a  heartless,  cruel  thing  in  destroying  all  her  baby's 
clothes  and  toys,  ana  he  took  great  care  that  she  should  never 
see  the  tiny  shoe  that  the  flames  had  spared.  He  was  ashamed 
of  his  weakness  in  treasuring  it,  since  he  had  deprived  her  of 
everything. 

He  endeavored  to  make  up  for  his  conduct  by  trying  to  enter- 
tain and  amuse  her,  in  order  that  she  might  forget. 

The  sound  of  battledore  and  shuttlecock  was  again  heard  in 
the  corridor  or  great  hall.  Also  he  taught  her  to  use  the  foil,  as 
Fauvel  had  taught  him  until  he  had  become  an  expert  fencer. 
And  when  they  were  tired  of  violent  exercise  there  were  books 
and  cards  or  driving  to  Fossato  to  see  the  Cinamettografo* 
They  were  more  like  lovers  again,  as  their  differences  over  the 
child  were  the  only  things  that  had  ever  ruffled  their  affection, 
and  now  that  the  occasion  of  these  was  removed  all  was  serene 
between  them.  There  was  but  one  dangerous  subject  and  that 
was  the  dwarf.  Margaret  would  not  listen  to  the  idea  that  his 
appearance  the  night  before  the  child's  death  had  anything  to 
do  with  the  tragedy;  the  creature  had  not  been  seen  or  heard 
of  since,  and  Margaret  changed  the  conversation  as  tactfully  as 
she  could  whenever  he  was  mentioned,  as  it  only  made  them 
quarrel. 

Every  year  Leone  had  found  great  pleasure  in  going  down 
to  the  poderi  **  in  the  valley  and  offering  his  services  to  help  in 
the  vintage.  He  knew  many  of  the  farmers  and  vine-growers 
and  it  is  quite  customary  in  Italy  for  the  upper  classes  to  assist 

*  Motion  pictures. 
**  Sort  of  farms. 


The  Gloom  of  the  Winter       247 

in  the  grape-gathering  as  a  diversion.  He  dearly  loved  the 
sylvan  life  and  the  events  that  each  change  of  season  brought 
forth.  This  year  he  persuaded  Margaret  to  go  with  him,  but 
she  did  not  find  it  the  pastime  that  he  did.  It  was  manual 
labor  for  her,  cutting  the  heavy  purple  and  white  clusters  and 
staining  her  hands  and  clothing,  and  though  it  was  interesting 
for  a  few  days  as  an  experience,  she  soon  tired  of  it  and  she 
insisted  now  that  he  go  without  her. 

She  often  longed  to  visit  the  spot  where  the  baby  lay,  but 
when  she  broached  the  subject  Leone  shook  his  head.  "  It  is 
too  soon,"  he  said,  "  I  could  not  go  back  there  yet;  wait  until 
spring,  Tesoro,  then  I  will  take  thee."  Once  she  suggested 
that  she  could  find  the  way  by  herself,  but  he  exclaimed  with 
horror  that  she  must  not  think  of  such  a  thing,  the  mountains 
were  full  of  rough  men  at  this  season,  hunters,  trappers,  char- 
coal-burners, wood  choppers,  etc.,  a  lawless,  uncivilized  set  that 
kept  the  carbineers  busy.  "  It  might  be  death  to  thee  or  worse," 
he  declared.  " Pazienzi*  I  will  take  thee  there  in  the  spring." 

The  falling  leaves,  the  leaden  clouds,  the  departure  of  the 
song-birds,  the  whole  autumnal  aspect  of  the  country,  added  to 
her  depression,  and  when  winter  finally  set  in  a  gloom  impene^ 
trable  seemed  to  rest  upon  the  castle.  When  the  out-door  inter- 
ests ceased  for  Leone  he  shut  himself  up  with  his  writing  again4 
working  hours  at  a  time  upon  his  manuscripts.  This  he  was 
obliged  to  do,  as  he  had  become  a  regular  contributor  to  two 
magazines  and  a  paper.  Margaret,  therefore,  was  left  alone 
most  of  the  time.  She  missed  Giacinta  sadly  and  she  had  really 
nothing  to  do  now.  Keeping  the  baby's  wardrobe  supplied 
and  in  order  had  been  her  chief  occupation  and  pleasure.  She 
had  tried  to  make  over  some  of  her  own  clothes,  but  without 
Giacinta  to  direct  it  was  difficult,  and  she  became  discouraged 
and  put  the  sewing  away.  She  then  took  to  reading.  Fauvel 
kept  them  supplied  with  all  the  latest  novels  and  she  read  con- 
stantly French  and  Italian,  living  in  a  world  of  fiction  and 

*  Patience. 


248  A  Cry  of  Youth 

became  so  absorbed  in  them  that  she  would  read  by  candlelight 
at  night  after  going  to  bed;  as  a  result  she  strained  her  eyes, 
and  was  forced  to  give  up  reading  for  a  while. 

The  winter  was  terribly  severe.  There  were  times  when 
they  were  literally  snowed-in.  They  could  not  get  to  the  vil- 
lage for  fresh  food  and  no  one  dared  mount  to  them,  therefore 
they  had  to  live  on  salt-fish  and  salt-meats  and  whatever  sup- 
plies the  storehouse  contained,  until  the  storms  abated.  Also  the 
mails  were  delayed,  and  when  there  was  a  respite  from  the  snow 
and  winds  Leone  and  Beppo  would  venture  down  together  to  the 
post-office  in  old  Santoni's  house,  to  get  letters  that  were  weeks 
old  and  papers  in  which  the  news  of  the  world  had  grown 
stale.  This  was  the  third  winter  that  Margaret  and  Leone 
had  spent  at  Rocca  Serrata,  but  the  previous  ones  had  been  mild 
compared  to  this.  The  wind  rushed  and  whistled  round  the 
old  fortress  like  a  powerful  spirit  bent  upon  destroying  what 
was  left  of  it.  Casements,  the  fastenings  of  which  had  worn 
out,  would  bang  back  and  forth,  breaking  the  glass,  while  icy 
blasts  swept  down  the  long  corridors,  rattling  doors  and  howling 
around  the  tower  stairs  like  souls  in  distress.  Meanwhile  Mar- 
garet would  sit  for  hours,  close  to  the  fire,  without  occupation 
or  amusement,  a  prey  to  her  own  dreary  thoughts. 

"  Could  she  go  on  forever,  living  like  this?  "  she  asked  herself, 
was  she  never  again  to  have  any  society  or  friends?  The 
same  life  day  after  day,  the  same  landscapes,  mountains,  moun- 
tains, mountains!  White  in  winter,  purple  in  summer.  Was 
she  never  to  exchange  an  idea,  except  with  Leone,  Carlotta,  or 
Fauvel?  She  bepan  to  long  intensely  to  be  once  more  in  the 
vortex  of  the  world;  during  these  years  .of  her  retreat  disas- 
ters through  the  forces  of  nature  and  the  carelessness  of  man, 
had  rent  and  wrung  it,  marvellous  inventions  and  deeds  had 
stirred  it,  but  only  echoes  of  them  had  reached  them  here. 
She  longed  to  get  back  to  that  world,  but  how  could  it  be 
done?  Leone  could  not  be  seen  in  any  of  the  large  Italian  cities 
and  run  the  risk  of  becoming  known  and  she  would  never  leave 


The  Gloom  of  the  Winter       249 

him.  He  had  become  a  part  of  her  existence  and  life  would 
be  insupportable  without  him.  She  loved  his  beauty,  his  orig- 
inality, even  his  faults.  Fauvel  had  often  said  that  after  the 
lapse  of  five  or  six  years  Leone  would  be  so  forgotten  that  they 
might  go  about  with  safety  and  had  hinted  at  a  life  at  Brus- 
sels, but  that  would  be  two  or  three  years  yet  to  wait;  how 
could  she  stand  it  ?  Then  a  positive  nostalgia  made  her  almost 
physically  ill.  She  longed  for  her  native  city,  big,  busy,  noisy, 
splendid  New  York,  the  shops,  the  theatres,  and  more  than 
all  she  yearned  to  see  her  mother  and  sister;  their  letters  had 
become  almost  tantalizing. 

In  one  Josephine  wrote  how  lavishly  Cousin  Cornelia  Ward 
was  entertaining,  and  added,  "  she  might  as  well  spend  her 
money,  you  know,  as  she  has  no  one  to  save  it  for.  Wallace 
Grant  still  manages  her  affairs  and  her  income  has  more  than 
doubled;  he  is  a  wizard  for  money-making.  He  has  made 
piles  of  it  lately,  and  is  building  a  stunning  house  on  Park  Ave- 
nue as  he  intends  to  live  here  now.  Everyone  is  wondering 
who  is  to  be  the  mistress  of  it?  Cousin  Cornelia  told  me 
confidentially  that  he  has  never  ceased  to  care  for  you.  I 
believe  if  you  should  come  home  and  be  nice  to  him  he  would 
probably  ask  you  again  —  oh,  my  dear,  money  is  such  a  power! 
I  don't  see  how  you  can  remain  contented  where  you  are,  being 
a  '  companion  '  all  your  young  life  — " 

These  home  letters  went  far  to  increase  Margaret's  longing 
and  despondency.  Money!  Josephine  was  right,  what  a 
power  it  is!  But  she  wished  her  sister  would  stop  writing 
about  Wallace  Grant.  If  she  and  Leone  had  money  they 
could  travel  together  far  off,  in  strange  and  interesting  coun- 
tries, instead  of  wasting  their  youth  in  exile  here,  in  this  forlorn, 
ghostly  place;  then  she  sneezed  and  shivered,  as  a  gust  of 
wind  blew  open  the  door,  and  she  thought  how  formerly  ev- 
erything about  the  castle  that  had  seemed  picturesquely  ruinous, 
now  she  only  saw  as  decaying  age. 

"  Do  you  ever  think  of  the  future,  Leone?  "  she  asked  one 


250  A  Cry  of  Youth 

evening  as  they  were  sitting  together,  close  to  the  huge  fire- 
place in  the  cedar-room.  Neither  of  them  had  spoken  for 
nearly  an  hour,  simply  because  there  was  nothing  to  talk  about. 
Every  once  in  a  while  Leone  would  take  up  a  handful  of  pine 
cones  from  a  sacque  lying  near  and  throw  them  between  the 
logs;  they  would  sputter  and  burst,  give  off  a  pleasant  odor 
and  start  a  brighter  blaze.  He  did  not  answer  for  a  moment 
and  she  repeated  her  question. 

"Yes,  of  course  I  do,"  was  the  reply. 

"  But  I  mean  seriously,"  she  said,  "  for  I  think  of  the  future 
a  great  deal.  What  is  to  become  of  you  and  me?  Are  we 
to  live  forever  upon  the  charity  of  Fauvel?" 

He  looked  up  at  her,  "  I  don't  understand  you,"  he  said, 
rather  coldly.  "  This  is  our  home  and  why  should  you  call 
it  '  charity  '  that  we  are  living  upon  ?  Fauvel  has  made  big 
sums  from  the  sales  of  my  pictures,  so  I  feel  that  I  earn  the 
living  for  both  of  us.  Besides,  I  am  the  heir  of  Rocca 
Serrata." 

"  Don't  be  too  sure  of  your  inheritance.  Fauvel  is  whim- 
sical, he  may  marry;  many  a  confirmed  bachelor  does,  though 
declaring  he  never  will.  Do  you  suppose  his  wife  would  have 
us  around?  What  is  more,  your  youth  and  good  looks  are  not 
going  to  last  forever  and  then  your  commercial  value  as  his 
model  will  be  gone." 

"  I  am  not  played  out  yet,  Margherita,"  he  said,  throwing 
back  his  head  with  that  proud  gesture  peculiar  to  himself,  "  I 
have  several  years  left." 

"  Of  course,  but  I  told  you  I  was  thinking  of  the  future. 
Now  suppose  you  should  be  mistaken  about  being  his  heir,  or 
he  should  tire  of  us,  what  then?  " 

"  Cara  mia,  why  do  you  speak  of  such  improbabilities  ?  But 
if  all  this  should  happen  I  still  have  my  writing;  I  make  more 
and  more  from  it  every  year." 

"  But  we  could  not  possibly  live  upon  what  you  make ;  it 
hardly  keeps  us  in  clothes  and  a  few  little  extra  comforts." 


The  Gloom  of  the  Winter       251 

"  I  do  all  I  can,  tesoro''  he  answered.  "  If  I  had  money 
thou  should'st  have  it  all;  for  my  part  I  am  content." 

"  You  have  no  ambition,"  she  replied  almost  sharply. 
"  Don't  you  long  for  something  more  than  these  old  walls?  " 

"  No,"  he  said  simply,  "  why  should  I,  you  are  here." 

When  he  made  answer  like  this  it  always  touched  her  and 
provoked  her  at  the  same  time.  Neither  spoke  again  for  a  few 
moments,  while  the  fire  crackled  and  the  clock  ticked,  count- 
ing away  their  life  seconds,  Margaret  thought,  in  tedious 
monotony.  Then  the  shrill,  squeaking  voice  of  the  macaw 
broke  the  silence.  "  Fleurette,"  she  screeched,  "  Fleurette,  ah 
—  t u  es  belle,  Fleurette !  " 

"  Poor  Fleurette  does  not  get  much  flattery  now  her  master 
is  away,"  Margaret  remarked,  "  so  she  has  to  remind  us  that 
she  is  beautiful." 

Margaret  did  not  like  the  bird;  she  thought  her  a  nuisance 
and  was  afraid  of  her  sharp  beak,  but  for  Fauvel's  sake  she 
was  well  taken  care  of  between  them,  though  they  seldom  no- 
ticed or  spoke  to  her.  Sometimes,  however,  she  amused  them 
by  mimicking  the  various  members  of  the  household.  She  was 
in  a  talkative  humor  to-night,  and  bursts  of  French,  Italian, 
and  German  came  forth ;  then  she  began  to  whistle  the  "  Mar- 
seillaise," finishing  up  with  the  "  Marcia  Reale  "  which  Leone 
had  taught  her.  Her  rendering  of  it  was  not  quite  true,  so 
he  went  over  to  her  stand  and  whistled  the  King's  Royal 
March,  while  she  listened  with  her  head  on  one  side.  But  she 
could  not  be  induced  to  try  it  over  again,  just  continued  to 
look  at  him  peculiarly;  then  all  at  once  she  opened  her  beak 
and  in  a  soft  baby  voice  that  struck  the  hearts  of  both  of 
them,  she  called  — "  'One,  'One !  "  and  suddenly,  changing  to 
his  own  tones:  "  A  more,  Amore.  Vieni  qui  bambino  mio, 
angelino  — "  * 

"  Stop,"  Leone  cried  furiously.  "  Stop !  That  name  and 
those  words  you  shall  not  say,  uccellaccio"  '  And  picking  up 

*  Amore,  Amore,  come  here  baby,  little  angel. 
**  Horrid  bird. 


252  A  Cry  of  Youth 

a  book  he  hurled  it  at  her;  but  she  dodged  it,  flew  at  him  with 
every  feather  starting  out  in  her  in  mad  rage  and  settled  upon 
his  wrist,  giving  it  a  stinging  bite.  He  screamed  with  pain  and 
beat  her  off.  Margaret  rushed  to  him ;  it  was  an  ugly  bite  and 
Clemente  was  called,  who  advised  heating  an  iron  red-hot  and 
cauterizing  the  wound,  which  was  accordingly  done  while  Mar- 
garet held  his  arm,  the  smell  of  burning  flesh  making  her  feel 
faint  and  ill.  And  the  culprit  watched  the  proceedings  with 
her  bead-like  eyes  from  a  dark  corner  at  the  top  of  the  wains- 
coting. Leone  was  heroic  enough  during  the  operation  but 
became  very  nervous  afterwards,  was  sure  he  would  have  hydro- 
phobia, or  lockjaw,  and  fumed  himself  into  a  fever,  as  many 
healthy  people,  unfamiliar  with  pain  do,  when  any  slight  acci- 
dent happens,  altogether  acting  like  an  unreasonable  child. 

"  I  will  wring  Fleurette's  neck,"  he  declared,  as  Margaret 
assisted  him  to  undress  in  his  helplessness,  with  his  right  arm 
in  a  sling,  "  as  soon  as  my  hand  is  well." 

"If  you  do,  Fauvel  will  wring  yours,"  she  replied;  "he 
loves  Fleurette.  Row  was  that  poor  silly  bird  to  know  she 
was  wounding  our  feelings?  You  lost  your  temper  and  you  are 
punished  for  it." 

"  I  will,"  he  declared  again;  "  I  will  kill  her." 

"  Nonsense,  nonsense,"  said  Margaret  soothingly,  as  she 
fluffed  up  his  pillow  and  got  him  finally  to  bed. 

"  I  will,"  he  repeated  darkly,  "  and  I  will  kill  that  hideous 
mal  occhio*  that  scurvy  dwarf,  that  demon  who  brought  mis- 
fortune to  this  house  if  he  ever  shows  his  face  here  again,  and 
I  will  kill  the  slayer  of  my  child !  " 

"  Dear  me,"  she  exclaimed,  "  what  wholesale  murder  you 
are  going  into !  "  She  always  tried  to  make  light  of  it  when 
one  of  these  revengeful  moods  took  possession  of  him  and  shame 
him  into  a  different  frame  of  mind,  but  to-night  he  was  suffer- 
ing physically  and  was  harder  to  manage.  "  It  is  lucky  for 
you,"  she  continued,  "  that  you  have  no  enemies,  or  they  might 

•Evil  eye. 


The  Gloom  of  the  Winter       253 

make  trouble  for  you,  hearing  these  perpetual  threats  to  kill." 

"  You  are  so  meek,  Margherita,"  he  sniffed;  "  you  would  let 
any  one  do  you  an  injury  and  never  think  of  avenging  yourself. 
You  have  no  spirit!  " 

"  Oh,  yes  I  have,"  she  retorted,  "  but  I  am  no  assassin." 
Then  she  remembered  the  quieting  medicine  that  Fauvel  some- 
times gave  and  after  two  or  three  doses,  long  past  midnight  he 
fell  asleep. 

It  was  nearly  two  o'clock  when  Margaret  blew  out  her  can- 
dle and  got  into  bed.  She  was  just  becoming  warm  and 
drowsy,  when  she  remembered  that  they  had  never  thought  to 
put  Fleurette  in  her  cage  for  the  night  and  cover  it  with  a 
blanket,  as  was  always  done  in  winter;  also  that  they  had  for- 
gotten to  close  the  window  that  had  been  opened  to  air  the 
room  from  the  smell  of  burning  flesh,  after  Clemente  had  ap- 
plied the  heated  iron  to  the  injured  wrist.  When  the  fire  died 
out  Fleurette  would  certainly  take  cold  and  lose  her  voice;  or, 
worse  still,  she  might  escape  through  the  open  window ;  half  the 
bars  were  gone,  broken  and  rotted  away  with  age ;  she  had  not 
had  her  wings  clipped  since  Fauvel  left  and  she  could  easily 
fly  out  and  perish  in  the  snow. 

"  Oh,  dear,"  sighed  Margaret  from  the  depths  of  her  down 
quilt,  "  must  I  get  out  of  bed  to  wait  on  a  bird!  And  it's  hor- 
ribly spooky  to  go  downstairs  all  alone  at  this  hour  in  the 
dark." 

It  would  be  cruel  to  wake  Leone,  she  thought,  after  he  had 
suffered  so  much.  Well,  there  was  no  help  for  it,  she  must 
go  down  and  see  that  Fleurette  was  safely  disposed  of  for  the 
night;  very  reluctantly  she  threw  off  her  coverings,  put  her 
feet  into  her  worsted  slippers,  lighted  a  candle  and  slipped  into 
a  warm  dressing  gown. 

"  Oh,  you  nuisance,"  she  said,  as  she  passed  into  the  draughty 
corridor,  shielding  the  light  with  her  hand  to  keep  it  from 
blowing  out  and  feeling  the  cold  of  the  cement  flooring  go 
through  and  through  her,  "  to  think  that  I  should  have  to  take 


254  A  Cry  of  Youth 

all  this  trouble  for  a  miserable  bird ;  but  then  it  is  for  Fauvel's 
sake,"  and  she  drew  her  wrapper  tighter  around  her.  How 
horribly  dark  it  was,  and  how  still !  If  the  castle  were  haunted, 
this  was  exactly  the  time  for  the  ghosts  to  appear,  and  she 
thought  of  all  the  blood-curdling  stories  she  had  heard  of  Rocca 
Serrata. 

For  a  moment  she  felt  as  if  she  could  not  go  on  and  was  about 
to  turn  back  when  she  thought  again  of  Fauvel  and  of  how 
many  times  he  had  put  himself  out  for  her,  also  of  the  value 
of  his  pet.  A  macaw,  speaking  three  languages,  was  worth  a 
great  deal. 

How  she  wished  she  had  the  price  that  Fleurette  represented, 
and  as  she  went  on  down  the  stairs  the  longing  for  money  came 
again  upon  her  so  strongly  that  she  almost  forgot  her  fears. 


CHAPTER   XXII 

THE  LOST  JEWELS 

"  There  seated  by  the  fire, 

A  form  of  impish  mold, 
His  looks  would  fear  inspire 

Despite  the  tale  he  told 
Of  the  sparkle  of  the  diamond, 

And  the  glitter  of  the  gold." 

The  door  of  the  cedar  room  was  open  and  as  Margaret 
crossed  the  threshold  she  was  possessed  with  the  uncanny  feel- 
ing that  she  was  not  alone,  but  when  she  swept  the  candle 
around  there  was  no  one  to  be  seen.  The  fire  was  not  yet  out, 
for  from  behind  the  high-backed  armchairs  where  she  and  Leone 
had  been  sitting  came  a  ruddy  glow.  Fleurette,  the  macaw, 
was  perched  upon  her  stand,  but  her  feathers  were  ruffled  and 
she  had  the  air  of  perceiving  something  that  displeased  her. 

Margaret  set  the  candle  upon  the  cabinet,  held  out  her  arm 
for  the  bird,  coaxed  her  upon  it  and  shut  her  in  the  cage,  ar- 
ranging the  blanket  over  it,  all  the  time  her  heart  beating  with 
nervous  apprehension,  she  could  not  tell  why.  She  must  close 
the  window,  then  how  she  would  scurry  down  the  corridor  and 
up  the  stairs,  safely  back  to  her  own  room.  Going  over  to  the 
window  she  made  it  fast  by  turning  long  iron  rods  into  rusty 
sockets,  still  obsessed  with  the  feeling  that  there  was  some  one 
else  in  the  room.  As  she  turned  and  took  up  her  candle  again 
she  heard  a  sigh,  and  stood  stock-still.  Could  it  be  Fleurette? 
No;  it  came  from  the  direction  of  the  fireplace.  Lifting  the 
light  high,  she  peered  around  the  back  of  the  armchairs,  and 
lying  in  a  heap,  in  front  of  the  expiring  embers,  saw  a  creature 
covered  with  a  goat-skin  mantle  that  was  oozing  water  from 
the  melting  snow  upon  it.  One  long  arm  was  stretched  out 
and  in  his  hand  he  grasped  an  iron  bar  which  he  had  evidently 

255 


256  A  Cry  of  Youth 

wrenched  from  the  window.  He  was  asleep  and  as  she  looked 
again  she  recognized  the  dwarf,  the  Jettatura,  as  Carlotta  and 
Leone  called  him.  For  a  second  her  heart  ceased  to  ber.t  and 
she  broke  into  a  cold  perspiration.  Oh,  this  was  horrible! 

But  Margaret  was  naturally  brave  in  any  real  danger. 

It  was  a  relief  to  learn  that  a  human  being  and  not  a  ghost 
had  given  that  sigh,  yet  the  helplessness  of  her  situation  came 
over  her  appallingly;  he  could  strike  her  senseless  in  an  instant 
with  that  piece  of  iron.  She  might  scream  but  no  one  would 
hear  her;  Leone's  door,  far  off  upstairs,  was  tightly  closed,  and 
the  dose  she  had  given  him  made  him  sleep  soundly.  A  bell 
cord,  attached  to  a  series  of  wires  leading  to  Clemente's  quar- 
ters, hung  from  an  opposite  wall,  but  she  would  have  to  cross 
the  length  of  the  room  to  reach  it,  and  in  the  cabinet  near  her 
was  a  pistol. 

She  moved  toward  the  weapon,  her  soft  slippers  making  no 
noise,  and  cautiously  opened  the  door;  but  just  as  her  hand 
touched  it  a  log  from  the  fire  fell  heavily,  lighting  the  room 
with  its  sparks,  and  the  dwarf  awoke,  springing  to  his  feet. 
Margaret's  limbs  were  trembling  so  that  she  could  scarcely 
stand,  but  the  arm  she  raised  was  steady  as  she  put  her  finger 
on  the  trigger  of  the  pistol  and  pointed  it  at  him.  She  had 
never  used  a  pistol  and  did  not  even  know  if  it  were  loaded,  but 
she  made  the  bluff.  He  saw  her  and  saw  also  the  pistol,  then 
staggered  back,  threw  down  his  weapon  which  resounded  upon 
the  floor,  and  fell  on  his  knees. 

"  Signora,"  he  cried,  "  do  not  kill  me,  I  am  defenceless ;  I 
would  not  harm  you  if  I  could,  I  mean  harm  to  no  one.  I  saw 
the  window  open  and  the  firelight  tempted  me,  so  I  climbed  up 
the  dead  vines  and  came  in.  Signora,  have  mercy !  " 

Margaret  did  not  move;  she  felt  her  strength  returning 
while  the  fellow  knelt,  his  arms  stretched  out  in  a  pleading  at- 
titude. 

"  You  have  been  ordered  away  from  here,"  she  said.  "  You 
know  that,  and  yet  you  come  back  again,  and  like  a  thief." 


The  Lost  Jewels  257 

"  I  am  no  thief,  signora ;  ah,  have  pity  upon  me,  an  unfortu- 
nate, and  do  not  send  me  away;  I  am  almost  dead  of  cold  and 
hunger.  No  one  will  give  me  shelter  because  they  think  I 
bring  them  ill  luck.  Ah,  per  I'amor  di  Dio,  do  not  turn  me 
out!" 

Margaret  had  lowered  her  arm  but  still  kept  her  hold  on 
the  pistol.  "  For  that  same  reason,"  she  said,  "  I  cannot  let 
you  stay;  the  Signore,  my  husband,  believes  you  have  the  evil 
eye,  and  your  life  would  not  be  safe  if  he  should  find  you  here, 
after  he  had  forbidden  you  to  come." 

"  Alas,  signora,  I  would  not  harm  a  fly  or  bring  ill  luck  to 
any  one.  Do  not  turn  me  out  this  bitter  night,  Gentelissima. 
I  swear  by  the  Madonna  that  I  will  harm  no  one." 

"  But  why  are  you  here  at  all?  "  she  asked.  "  Last  summer 
you  came  to  dig  for  herbs,  you  told  us,  but  there  are  no  herbs 
at  this  season.  Now  you  sneak  indoors  when  every  one  is 
sleeping;  it  is  the  act  of  a  thief,  I  say.  Suppose  I  were  to  pull 
that  bellcord  and  arouse  the  steward,  he  would  send  you  to  the 
jail  at  Fossato." 

"  Ah,  Signora,"  he  cried,  in  distress,  "  do  not  give  me  up. 
Let  me  stay  a  while,  just  a  little  while.  I  will  not  show  my- 
self to  the  young  Signore  Illustrissimo.  There  are  plenty  of 
places  where  I  could  hide  —  the  old  guardroom  away  up  on  the 
top  floor  of  the  keep,  in  the  north  wing,  or  the  chapel." 

"  Do  you  know  the  castle?  "  asked  Margaret,  astonished. 

"  I  know  it  well,  Signora." 

"  Stand  up,"  she  said,  "  and  explain  yourself." 

She  felt  perfectly  secure  now  with  the  pistol  in  her  hand.  It 
was  a  small  Derringer,  loaded,  and  she  had  lost  her  fear  of  the 
dwarf,  for  somehow  his  face,  though  hideous,  had  an  intelligent 
and  kindly  look  and  he  was  absolutely  in  her  power. 

"  So,"  she  continued,  as  he  got  upon  his  feet,  "  you  know 
something  of  Rocca  Serrata?  " 

"  I  know  many  things,  Signora." 

"  Tell  me  one,"  she  said  imperatively,  "  and  unless  you  make 


258  A  Cry  of  Youth 

me  a  satisfactory  answer  I  shall  be  obliged  to  give  you  up. 
Why  do  you  persist  in  coming  here?  You  must  have  some 
special  reason;  is  there  anything  you  wish  to  take  away?  " 

"  Gentilissima,  I  wish  to  take  away  only  what  is  mine." 

"  I  do  not  understand  — " 

"  Long  ago  when  I  was  a  youth  I  lived  here.  Something  of 
value  belonging  to  me  was  lost  and  after  years  of  toil,  priva- 
tion and  hardships,  I  returned  to  seek  it.  Signora,  I  swear  by 
all  the  saints  that  what  I  say  is  true." 

"  —  is  true,"  echoed  Fleurette  from  underneath  her  covering. 

The  dwarf  started  nervously. 

"  It  is  only  a  talking  bird,"  said  Margaret;  "she  sometimes 
repeats  after  us.  What  is  it  that  belongs  to  you  ?  " 

He  did  not  answer,  but  shaking  and  trembling,  put  his  hand 
on  a  chair  for  support. 

"  What  is  the  matter?  "  asked  Margaret. 

"  I  am  exhausted,  Signora,  and  frozen;  I  have  not  eaten  since 
yesterday  morning." 

"  Go  over  and  sit  by  the  fire  and  do  not  stir,"  she  said,  "  and 
I  will  give  you  something." 

In  the  cabinet  was  a  bottle  of  Marsala  and  a  plate  of  bis- 
cuits; she  poured  some  of  the  wine  into  a  glass  and  handed  it 
to  him  with  the  plate. 

"  Take  this,"  she  said  kindly. 

He  swallowed  it  quickly.  "  Ah,  noble  lady,  how  can  poor 
Ferruccio  ever  thank  you  ?  " 

"  By  telling  me  the  truth.  If  there  is  anything  in  the  house 
that  belongs  to  you,  I  suppose  you  can  prove  it?  " 

"  I  can.  Will  not  the  Signora  be  seated?  It  is  not  fitting 
that  Ferruccio  should  sit  while  she  stands." 

Margaret  had  stood  over  him  like  a  watch-dog  while  he  had 
been  eating  and  drinking;  now  he  seemed  somewhat  revived, 
so  she  seated  herself  in  an  armchair,  while  he  squatted  by  the 
fire  at  her  feet.  The  clock  in  the  hall  struck  three ;  but  she  was 
wide  awake,  had  lost  her  fear  of  him  and  felt  only  pity  for  the 


The  Lost  Jewels  259 

poor,  abject  creature  whose  words  seemed  to  have  a  veracity  she 
could  not  doubt,  and  she  was  curious  to  hear  what  he  had 
to  tell;  so  still  keeping  her  hold  on  the  pistol  she  bade  him 
proceed. 

"  It  was  fifty  years  ago,  Signora,  that  Count  Renaldo  Steno 
of  Venice  brought  me  to  this  castle  to  wait  upon  a  young  and 
beautiful  lady  called  Donna  Lorina.  Count  Steno  was  a 
gambler,  a  drunkard,  and  a  scoundrel.  He  came  into  posses- 
sion of  Rocca  Serrata  through  a  gambling  debt,  but  he  never 
cared  for  it,  and  only  lived  here  because  it  was  a  safe  place." 
He  began  to  go  into  much  detail  about  the  Donna  Lorina,  and 
her  runaway  love  affair  with  the  Count. 

"  But  the  thing  that  is  yours,  Ferruccio,"  Margaret  inter- 
rupted, "  that  you  have  come  to  take  away,  what  is  it?  " 

"  Pazienza,  lady,  it  is  a  long  story." 

"  It  seems  like  an  interesting  one,"  she  replied.  She  was  sur- 
prised at  the  intelligent  way  the  dwarf  spoke.  He  was  not  the 
ignorant,  stupid  vagrant  she  had  imagined.  "  Do  you  feel 
strong  enough  to  lift  that  log?  "  she  asked  him;  "  we  must  not 
let  the  fire  go  out." 

The  dwarf  smiled  as  he  moved  and  took  up  easily  a  heavy 
log  which  he  threw  on  the  dying  fire.  Soon  it  was  crackling 
and  blazing,  giving  light  and  warmth. 

"  Go  on,"  she  said. 

He  proceeded  with  the  tale  of  the  unhappy  lady  whose  lover 
had  grown  weary  of  her. 

He  described  her.  "  She  was  small  and  not  unlike  the 
Signora,  and  had  beautiful  long  dark  hair,  and  often  wore  it  as 
the  Signora  has  hers." 

Margaret's  hair  was  unbound  and  hung  down  in  two  long 
loose  braids,  as  she  always  arranged  it  for  the  night.  "  And, 
Signora,"  he  added,  "  you  make  me  think  of  her,  for  your  heart 
is  kind  like  hers." 

"  Never  mind  me,"  she  said,  "  but  go  on." 

"  A  groom,  Giovanni,  told  me  that  Count  Steno  had  spent  so 


260  A  Cry  of  Youth 

much  money  that  he  was  obliged  to  stay  in  this  lonely  place 
until  he  caught  up,  but  when  the  second  autumn  came  he  went 
away,  saying  he  would  return  in  the  spring." 

"  Will  you  ever  come  to  your  own  part?  "  Margaret  said,  a 
little  impatiently. 

"  Ah,  gentilissima,  unless  I  tell  the  whole  you  will  not  be- 
lieve me." 

"  Yes,  I  will,"  she  said ;  "  only  Itt  me  know  what  it  is  that 
belongs  to  you,  that  I  may  get  it  for  you  and  let  you  go." 

A  strange  look  came  over  the  face  of  the  dwarf  as  he  an- 
swered, "  No,  Signora,  that  you  could  never  do  without  my 
assistance." 

"Why  not?" 

"  Because  you  would  not  know  how  to  find  it." 

"  But  what  is  it,  what  is  it?  I  insist  upon  knowing.  I  have 
been  very  patient  with  you,  but  I  must  know  at  once  why  you 
have  broken  into  the  house  and  what  you  wish  to  take  from  it." 

He  leaned  forward  and  looked  her  straight  in  the  eyes,  as 
he  said,  "  The  jewels  of  Donna  Lorina !  " 

Margaret  rose  from  her  seat  in  astonishment.  "What!" 
she  cried,  "the  jewels  of  this  unfortunate  lady?  You  said  it 
was  something  that  belonged  to  you;  how  can  you  possibly  make 
this  out  ?  " 

"  They  do  belong  to  me,  Signora;  she  gave  them  to  me." 

"  Oh,  you  cannot  expect  me  to  believe  this,  that  any  lady 
would  give  a  fortune  in  jewels,  to  you,  her  menial  servant !  " 

"  I  told  you,  Signora,"  he  said  very  gently,  "  that  you  must 
hear  the  whole  story  in  order  to  believe  me.  The  jewels  are 
mine.  No  word  of  untruth  have  I  spoken  as  God  is  my  wit- 
ness." 

"  But  where  are  they?  "  Margaret  gasped,  her  eyes  wide  open 
in  wonderment;  "  where  are  they?  " 

"  That,  Signora,  is  my  secret." 

"  Go  on,  go  on,"  she  said  eagerly,  as  she  reseated  herself. 
"  I  will  listen  to  all  you  have  to  tell." 


The  Lost  Jewels  261 

"  Buonissimo!"  he  replied,  in  a  tone  that  one  uses  when  a 
point  is  gained,  and  settling  back  comfortably  against  the  pile 
of  logs,  he  proceeded :  "  Before  Count  Steno  left  he  took  me  to 
one  side  and  told  me  that  he  left  the  lady  and  her  jewels  in  my 
care,  that  I  was  to  be  responsible  to  him  for  both.  After  he 
had  gone,  Donna  Lorina  kept  to  her  room  and  cried  all  the  time. 
That  was  a  long  and  lonely  winter;  she  seemed  to  live  only 
for  his  letters,  which  came  seldom  and  between  each  one  a 
longer  time  would  go  by.  There  were  Veronica,  her  maid; 
Giovanni,  the  groom;  the  cook  and  myself;  we  had  one  an- 
other, but  the  poor  lady  had  no  one.  Giovanni  was  handsome 
and  copied  the  ways  of  a  gentleman,  and  Veronica  was  pretty 
and  lively,  and  they  were  betrothed.  They  hated  it  here  and 
said  they  would  rather  lose  their  positions  than  lose  their  minds 
in  this  wilderness,  and  one  day  we  found  them  gone.  There 
were  only  the  cook  and  me  left.  Donna  Lorina  now  had  no 
woman  to  wait  upon  her  and  had  to  do  many  things  for  herself 
which  she  had  never  done  before.  When  Spring  came  she  be- 
gan to  expect  the  Count,  but  April,  May,  and  June  passed  and 
he  did  not  come.  She  spent  hours  at  the  top  of  the  watch- 
tower  looking  out  for  him  and  would  not  come  down  even  for 
meals,  so  I  used  to  carry  a  tray  to  her  and  sometimes  she  would 
call  out  as  I  was  on  my  way  up,  '  He  is  coming,  Ferruccio,'  and 
we  would  see  a  cloud  of  dust  in  the  distance  and  wait  and  watch 
together,  but  it  would  prove  to  be  only  some  peasant  driving  an 
ox  team;  no  one  ever  came  up  the  hill  to  the  castle  and  each 
letter  kept  putting  off  his  visit. 

"  One  night  about  midsummer  Nicola,  the  cook,  and  I  were 
talking  matters  over.  Said  he :  'It  is  my  belief  that  the  mas- 
ter does  not  intend  to  return  at  all  and  that  Donna  Lorina  is 
deserted.'  We  had  not  been  paid  our  wages  for  six  months, 
and  the  sum  of  money  the  Count  had  left  with  Nicola  for 
household  expenses  was  almost  gone.  He  went  every  now  and 
then  to  Fossato  to  buy  supplies  and  once  at  a  trattoria  he  heard 
some  one  say  that  Rinaldo  Steno  had  lost  everything  and  was 


262  A  Cry  of  Youth 

fleeing  from  his  creditors,  but  another  remarked  it  was  not  so, 
as  he  had  boasted  of  having  a  fortune  in  rare  jewels  that  he 
could  turn  into  money  at  any  time.  Nicola  was  about  to  say 
that  he  was  in  the  employ  of  Count  Steno  and  knew  of  the 
jewels  and  where  they  were,  but  bethought  himself  in  time  that 
the  men  might  follow  him  and  rob  and  murder  us.  Said  I  to 
him,  '  Donna  Lorina  is  not  deserted ;  the  master  will  come  again 
and  we  will  be  paid,  for  he  wants  the  jewels,  even  if  he  does 
not  want  the  lady.'  Well,  she  still  kept  her  watch  from  the 
tower,  weak  and  ill  as  she  was.  At  last  at  the  turn  of  the  year 
something  happened. 

"That  afternoon  (it  seems  like  yesterday,  Signora,  as  I  sit 
here  once  more  in  this  familiar  place),  Donna  Lorina  was 
asleep  upstairs  and  I  busy  in  the  kitchen,  when  I  heard  the 
sound  of  horse's  hoofs  and  ran  out  to  find  it  was  Giovanni,  the 
runaway,  all  dust  and  travel-stained.  He  told  me  that  the 
master  was  in  Venice  again  and  would  be  at  Rocca  Serrata  in 
a  few  days,  and  he  cursed  him  with  black  curses. 

"  Count  Steno  had  made  love  to  Veronica,  Giovanni's  be- 
trothed, and  that  foolish  one  had  listened  and  gone  off  with  him 
and  he  could  find  no  trace  of  her;  most  likely  she  was  shut  up 
in  some  other  castle  as  Donna  Lorina  was  here,  for  the  Count 
had  announced  his  engagement  to  an  heiress,  and  they  were  to 
be  married  before  Advent. 

"  Giovanni  raved,  walking  up  and  down.  I  pitied  the  poor 
fellow. 

"  '  He  is  having  one  last  orgy  in  Venice,'  he  went  on,  '  and 
within  the  week  he  will  be  here  —  for  what  ?  '  and  he  stopped 
in  the  middle  of  the  floor,  '  for  what  ?  For  the  jewels  of 
Donna  Lorina,  to  give  to  his  accursed  bride.'  We  heard  a 
shriek  and  a  fall  —  our  backs  had  been  to  the  door  —  we  turned, 
and  there  lay  the  lady  unconscious." 

"  Oh,  poor  thing,  poor  thing!  "  said  Margaret. 

"  When  my  lady  rose  from  the  couch  where  we  had  laid  her 
she  left  the  room,  leaning  against  the  wall  as  she  went.  I  ran 


The  Lost  Jewels  263 

to  help  her,  but  she  shook  me  off.  I  followed  her  at  a  distance. 
In  her  room  I  found  her  seated  in  front  of  a  table,  leaning  upon, 
it,  and  before  her  in  a  heap  lay  all  her  jewels.  She  did  not 
raise  her  head,  so  I  spoke ;  she  stared  at  me,  then  burst  into  wild 
laughter  —  her  mind  had  gone." 

"  Oh,  Ferruccio,"  cried  Margaret,  "  what  a  horrible  story!  " 

"  It  is,  Signora.  '  Donna  Lorina,'  said  I,  '  what  are  you 
going  to  do  with  these?'  And  I  touched  the  great  pile  of 
sparkle  and  glitter;  '  some  one  means  to  steal  them.'  '  Rinaldo, 
Rinaldo,'  she  screamed,  stood  up  and  put  her  hands  to  her  head, 
4  he  is  going  to  marry  another  woman,  I  heard  him  say  so, 
Giovanni  — ' 

"  '  Do  not  let  him  have  them,  Excellenza'  I  said ;  '  they  are 
yours,  he  has  no  right  to  take  them.' 

1 '  But,'  she  moaned,  '  I  do  not  want  them ;  I  only  want  his 
love.' 

'  But,'  I  told  her,  '  you  must  hide  them  at  once,  in  some 
place  out  of  the  way  and  safe;  do  not  tell  any  of  us  where  you 
put  them  just  yet;  so  that  when  the  robber  comes  we  can  say 
with  truth  we  do  not  know.  Do  you  understand  ?  —  Hark ! ' 
I  said,  for  I  had  heard  some  one  coming  upstairs.  '  Quick, 
lady,'  said  I,  pulling  an  empty  pigskin  pouch  from  my  pocket, 
and  I  swept  that  fortune  off  the  table  into  it  and  put  it  in  her 
hand.  '  Quick,  Donna  Lorina,'  I  said  again,  '  run  and  hide 
this  from  all  of  us.'  With  that  I  left  her." 

The  dwarf's  story  went  swifter  now.  The  lady  had  gone 
quite  mad  after  she  had  indeed  hidden  her  treasure  —  where, 
no  one  in  this  world  knew. 

"  Oh,"  said  Margaret,  shuddering,  as  he  told  of  the  Donna 
Lorina's  incoherent  talk  and  wild  laughter,  "  this  makes  my 
blood  curdle,  to  think  I  am  living  in  the  very  place  where  such 
frightful  things  happened." 

"  It  is  all  true,"  the  dwarf  said  solemnly. 

"  All  true,"  came  from  a  muffled  voice  the  other  side  of  the 
room.  This  time  they  both  started. 


264  A  Cry  of  Youth 

"  Be  quiet,  Fleurette,"  called  Margaret,  realizing  in  a  second 
from  whence  it  came. 

"Good  night,  Margherita,  good  night!"  the  bird  screeched 
in  a  high  key. 

"  Go  on,  Ferruccio,"  Margaret  said  nervously ;  "  I  am  anx- 
ious to  hear  the  end." 

Ferruccio  told  how  he  was  obliged  to  kill  Giovanni  in  self- 
defense  and  how  at  last  he  wanted  to  get  the  crazed  creature 
away  from  the  castle,  where  she  could  have  care.  Money  was 
needed  to  accomplish  this,  and  he  tried  to  get  her  to  disclose 
what  she  had  done  with  her  fortune.  But  when  he  asked  where 
were  the  jewels  —  she  nodded  to  herself  slyly,  "  Where  he  will 
never  find  them,"  she  said,  "  for  his  bride." 

'Where?'  I  persisted,"  Ferruccio  continued  narratively, 
"  but  Donna  Lorina  only  laughed,  repeating,  '  Where,  where.' 
'  Per  I' amor  di  Dio,'  I  cried,  alarmed,  '  tell  me  the  place  that  I 
may  go  and  bring  them  to  you.  With  the  sale  of  one  stone  I 
can  get  you  away  from  here;  there  will  be  money  enough  to 
live  comfortably  '  —  and  now  mark,  Signora,  what  she  said, 
and  her  tone  was  like  Gospel  truth :  '  They  are  safe,  Ferruccio, 
for  Cupid  himself  guards  them  where  dolphins  swim.  But 
they  are  yours  when  you  find  them,'  she  cried,  and  laughed 
aloud.  '  No,  no,  lady,'  said  I,  '  where  dolphins  swim  there 
must  be  water,  and  there  is  no  water  in  the  castle.'  But  she 
insisted,  '  Cupid  guards  them  where  dolphins  swim.'  And 
again  she  said  they  were  mine  when  I  found  them,  and  again 
she  laughed  and  laughed. 

"  I  tried  to  make*  her  tell  me  by  asking  her  where  she  had 
gone  the  day  before,  and  begged  her  to  speak  sensibly,  but  she 
paid  no  attention,  rambling  on  that  it  made  no  difference,  as 
she  would  soon  die,  that  she  knew  of  a  place  to  die  in  where 
no  one  would  ever  find  her.  Then  she  suddenly  sprang  up 
wildly  and  bounded  into  the  next  room,  slamming  the  door  be- 
hind her.  This  was  so  unlike  her  that  I  could  hardly  get  feet 
to  follow  her.  I  opened  the  closed  door  in  time  to  see  her 


The  Lost  Jewels  265 

rush  through  another  and  so  on  through  room  after  room, 
banging  doors  behind  her.  There  was  but  one  left,  and  this 
she  slammed  to  so  violently  that  it  was  hard  to  open,  but  in  that 
second  I  heard  a  creaking  in  the  room  beyond  and  when  I  en- 
tered she  was  nowhere  to  be  seen." 

Here  again  the  dwarf  paused  for  breath.  Margaret  had 
unconsciously  leaned  forward  in  her  chair,  her  whole  attention 
concentrated  on  his  words. 

"  Of  course,"  he  went  on,  "  I  thought  she  was  playing  me 
some  trick,  and  hiding.  That  room  was  the  last  one  of  the 
apartment  and  there  was  but  one  door,  the  one  through  which 
I  had  entered.  I  called,  I  looked  behind  all  the  furniture,  I 
moved  everything,  I  searched  even  back  of  the  curtains,  searched 
everywhere  —  calling  and  calling  —  but  she  had  disappeared 
utterly.  Listen,  Signora,  I  have  almost  finished.  For  three 
days  and  nights  I  searched,  scarcely  stopping  for  food  or  sleep. 
I  searched  all  over  the  castle,  every  place  that  I  knew  of  where 
I  could  make  my  way.  I  called  and  shouted  her  name,  and  it 
came  echoing  back  to  me  through  the  horrible  silence  and  empti- 
ness, all  the  while  feeling  the  folly  of  looking  for  her  anywhere 
save  in  that  one  room  and  the  end  of  each  search  brought  me 
back  to  the  spot  where  she  had  disappeared,  to  go  over  the  same 
ground  again  and  again.  It  looked  as  if  the  walls  must  have 
opened  and  swallowed  her  up.  Those  days  were  terrible.  On 
the  afternoon  of  the  third  day  I  saw  a  party  of  horsemen  com- 
ing up  the  mountain.  With  the  field  glass  I  recognized  Count 
Steno  and  his  friends." 

Margaret  rose  abruptly.  "  I  have  heard  enough,"  she  said 
severely ;  "  your  story  is  trash.  You  probably  killed  the  lady 
as  well  as  Giovanni  and  disposed  of  her  jewels  long  ago." 

"  Signora,"  the  fellow  cried,  rising  also,  "  I  declare  to  you  — 
I  swear  to  you  it  is  all  true." 

"  All  true,"  was  heard  again  from  the  cage  in  the  corner. 

Margaret  turned  irritably.  "  I  wish  you  would  be  still, 
Fleurette  " ;  then  again  addressing  the  dwarf :  "  If  your  story 


266  A  Cry  of  Youth 

is  true,  you  must  surely  know  what  became  of  Donna  Lorina." 

"  Stay,  Signora,  only  hear  me  to  the  end." 

He  told  of  his  escape  from  the  castle  and  the  Count ;  of  how 
he  had  been  charged  with  murdering  the  lost  lady  and  the  theft 
of  the  jewels,  and  of  how  he  had  gone  far  away  till  he  knew 
that  the  Count  and  all  who  remembered  the  old  story  were  dead 
or  gone  from  the  region. 

"  Two  years  ago  I  landed  in  Calabria,"  he  concluded,  "  and 
have  been  walking  back  ever  since." 

"  But  Donna  Lorina,  Ferruccio,  the  mystery  of  her  disap- 
pearance must  have  been  cleared  up  ?  " 

"  No,  gentilissima,  for  I  went  straight  to  the  monastery,  and 
asked  to  see  a  monk  who  knew  us  all.  I  told  the  monk  the 
true  story  in  the  confessional.  He  was  very  old,  but  he  re- 
membered the  scandal  when  the  Count  had  to  fight  the  charge 
of  himself  murdering  the  lady.  No,  Donna  Lorina  is  still  in 
the  castle,  and  I  have  come  to  find  her." 

"  Impossible !  "  Margaret  exclaimed.  "  I  have  lived  here  for 
a  long  time  and  there  is  no  trace  of  any  one  but  ourselves." 

"  Rocca  Serrata  is  very  large  and  the  aged  monk  was  a  wise 
man;  he  told  me  there  are  often  rooms  and  passages  secretly 
arranged  in  old  buildings  such  as  this.  Does  the  Signora  know 
thoroughly  all  parts  of  this  great  house  ?  " 

"  No,"  Margaret  answered  thoughtfully.  "  I  confess  I  do 
not.  I  know  there  are  many  closed  apartments,  some  walled 
up,  in  fact." 

"  Buonissimo"  he  said  quickly. 

"  The  Signora  doubtless  knows  where  these  apartments  are 
and  she  will  help  me  in  my  search." 

"  I  ?  " 

"Yes,  Signora." 

"  But  the  lady  cannot  be  living  all  this  time ;  you  said  this 
happened  fifty  years  ago  — 

"  I  did  not  say  I  expected  to  find  her  living — " 

"  Oh,  this  is  horrible,  Ferruccio !  "  Margaret  exclaimed,  as 


The  Lost  Jewels  267 

she  divined  his  meaning.  "  You  want  my  help  in  searching  for 
her  dead  body  ?  " 

"  And  her  jewels,"  he  added. 

Margaret  sank  down  in  her  chair  again.  "  Tell  me  more," 
she  said,  "  more  of  what  you  mean  and  in  what  part  of  the 
castle  were  her  apartments  —  the  room  in  which  she  disap- 
peared ?  " 

"  Signora,"  he  replied,  "  that  would  be  telling  you  every- 
thing. If  you  will  promise  me  to  keep  to  yourself  all  I  have 
just  told  you,  help  me  in  my  search  and  guard  me  from  your 
servants,  and  especially  from  the  young  Signore,  who  hates  me 
—  I  swear  to  you  that  I  will  give  you  half  the  jewels,  for  I 
believe  now  that  I  can  find  them." 

Margaret  hesitated.  Could  this  fantastic  tale  be  true?  He 
had  told  it  in  a  perfectly  straightforward  way  and  in  spite  of 
its  romantic,  tragic  and  sensational  qualities,  she  had  to  ac- 
knowledge that  she  believed  it. 

"  Perhaps,"  he  began,  as  her  hesitancy  continued,  "  the  gen- 
tilissima  thinks  she  can  find  the  jewels  by  herself,  but  she  is  mis- 
taken. To  begin  a  search  for  a  small  pouch  in  any  place  as 
big  as  Rocca  Serrata,  without  a  clue  would  be  a  useless  attempt, 
is  it  not  so?  The  signora  cannot  get  the  jewels  without  my 
assistance  and  I  cannot  get  them  without  her  protection;  what 
does  the  Signora  say?  " 

Why  should  she  not,  she  asked  herself.  Leone's  dislike  to 
the  dwarf  was  purely  superstitious  and  ridiculous.  It  would 
give  her  something  to  do,  something  to  think  of,  some  excite- 
ment in  these  tiresome  winter  days.  And  perhaps,  perhaps 
they  might  really  find  the  treasure,  a  pouch  full  of  rubies  and 
sapphires  and  diamonds! 

"Say 'Yes,' Signora!" 

"  One  moment,  Ferruccio.  Why  are  you  so  confident  that 
you  can  find  these  jewels  now,  when  you  searched  so  carefully 
fifty  years  ago  without  success?  " 

"  Because  fifty  years  ago  I  was  a  stupid,   ignorant  lad ;  I 


268  A  Cry  of  Youth 

searched  only  with  my  eyes  and  hands,  I  did  not  search  with  my 
brains;  is  it  'Yes,'  eh,  Signora?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  "  I  will." 

"  Ah,  thanks  be  to  San  Antonio!  Many  years  have  I  piayed 
to  him  to  let  me  see  them  again.  We  will  find  them,  we  will 
find  them  together !  " 

"  It  will  soon  be  morning,"  Margaret  said,  feeling  a  shade  of 
uneasiness  creep  over  her.  If  Leone  should  find  this  out  she 
dared  not  think  of  the  consequences;  but  the  secrecy  and  risk 
rather  gave  it  more  of  a  zest. 

"  You  must  hide  somewhere,  Ferruccio,"  she  said,  "  and  as 
early  as  I  can  I  will  bring  you  plenty  to  eat ;  where  shall  it  be  ? 
I  know  —  the  chapel ;  no  one  ever  goes  near  it ;  that's  the  safest 
place  I  can  think  of.  Do  you  know  how  to  get  there  ?  " 

"  Every  step,  Signora." 

"  Very  well,"  and  going  over  once  more  to  the  cabinet  she 
said,  "  Here  are  candles  and  matches;  I  will  make  you  more 
comfortable  to-morrow.  But  you  must  be  cautious;  if  you  are 
found  out,  there  will  be  awful  trouble.  Now  I  must  go ;  don't 
drop  wax  or  matches  —  our  old  steward  has  the  eyes  of  a  lynx ; 
you  go  first." 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

THE  PASSAGE  IN  THE  CRYPT 

For  many  a  month  lost  in  snow  profound, 
When  Sol  from  Cancer  sends  the  seasons  bland, 
And  in  their  northern  cave  the  storms  hath  bound; 
From  silent  mountains,  straight  with  startling  sound, 
Torrents  are  hurled,  green  fields  emerge, 

And  lo, 
The  trees  with  foliage,   cliffs  with  flowers   arc   crowned. 

BEATTIE. 

When  Leone  awoke,  his  hand  was  very  painful  and  needed 
attention,  so  it  was  late  in  the  morning  before  Margaret  could 
slip  away  to  keep  her  tryst  with  the  dwarf.  She  carried  a 
basket  of  food,  a  bottle  of  the  servants'  wine,  and  a  lantern, 
and  hurried  along  through  the  freezing  passages  of  the  ground 
floor.  She  had  not  been  to  the  chapel  since  the  first  summer 
when  Fauvel  had  shown  her  over  the  castle;  once  she  made  a 
wrong  turning  but  soon  found  her  bearings  and  arrived  at  an 
arched  door  of  worm-eaten  oak  studded  with  nails  in  the  shape 
of  a  cross.  It  took  both  hands  to  open  it.  The  chapel  had 
long  ago  been  rifled  of  all  its  sacred  ornaments.  There  was  a 
battered  confessional  in  one  corner,  upon  the  altar  some  bits  of 
broken  tiles  and  rubbish,  and  a  bent  and  tarnished  candlestick. 
In  a  small  gallery  a  primitive  pipe  organ  was  tumbling  to 
pieces.  Margaret  closed  the  heavy  door  behind  her.  "  Fer- 
ruccio,"  she  called  timidly,  seeing  no  one;  then  a  ragged  purple 
curtain  that  screened  off  the  sacristy  was  parted  and  the  mis- 
shapen creature  appeared. 

"  Ah,  Gentilissima,"  he  said,  as  he  kissed  the  hem  of  her 
skirt,  "  I  began  to  fear  you  would  not  come." 

"  I  never  break  my  promise,  Ferruccio,  but  what  we  have 
undertaken  is  very  dangerous."  My  husband  and  the  servants 
think  you  have  the  '  Evil  Eye,'  and  that  you  brought  misfor- 

269 


270  A  Cry  of  Youth 

tune  to  us  by  the  death  of  our  child,  and  you  may  be  harshly 
dealt  with  if  discovered.  I  will  do  my  best  to  shield  you,  and 
this  is  the  safest  place  I  know  of ;  my  husband  never  comes  near 
it,  and  the  servants  make  a  point  of  avoiding  it,  for  they  say  it 
is  unlucky  to  enter  a  desecrated  chapel;  for  my  part,  I  am  not 
superstitious.  Now  eat,"  and  she  emptied  the  contents  of  the 
basket. 

"  Ah,  grazie,  Signora,"  the  old  man  said,  looking  at  the  food 
with  hungry  eyes,  "  I  will  bring  you  good  luck  and  fortune ; 
only  trust  me." 

"  Where  do  you  propose  to  begin  the  search  ?  "  she  asked, 
after  he  had  finished  his  meal  and  seemed  much  revived. 

"  Below  in  the  vaults,"  he  replied,  pointing  downward. 
"  The  apartments  that  Donna  Lorina  lived  in  are  those  nearest 
the  ruins." 

"  Oh,  that  is  far  away  from  us,"  she  said ;  "  we  live  on  the 
terrace  —  the  villa  side.  What  is  your  idea  of  going  into  the 
vaults?" 

"  Because,  Signora,  by  doing  that  I  can  get  right  under  the 
ruins  and  come  up  through  them  until  I  find  myself  on  a  level 
with  the  rear  of  the  apartments  of  Donna  Lorina,  for  I  am 
convinced  that  the  room  in  which  she  disappeared  has  some 
communication  with  them.  Last  summer  when  I  made  a  pre- 
text of  digging  for  herbs  I  was  really  trying  to  discover  some 
hole  in  the  wall  big  enough  for  me  to  get  through,  so  that  I 
might  come  up  inside  the  castle  in  that  way." 

"  I  suppose  you  know  what  you  are  about,  Ferruccio,"  Mar- 
garet said ;  "  it  all  sounds  very  vague  to  me,  and  remember  the 
lady  said  the  jewels  were  near  cupids  and  dolphins;  do  you 
suppose  she  could  have  had  reference  to  some  picture  or  tapes- 
try and  have  hidden  them  behind  it?  " 

"  That  is  a  good  idea,  Signora ;  two  heads  are  better  than  one. 
How  often  have  I  said  to  myself,  '  Where  Cupid  guards  and 
dolphins  swim,'  " 

Margaret  was  thoughtful  for  a  moment ;  then  said :    "  I  am 


The  Passage  in  the  Crypt      271 

so  afraid  you  will  be  seen,  Ferruccio,  if  you  go  prowling  around 
to  find  your  way  in  the  vaults." 

"  Perhaps  I  can  go  down  from  here,  Signora."  With  that 
he  went  over  to  a  slab  in  the  floor  and  took  hold  of  a  large  iron 
ring  attached  to  it.  He  tried  to  pull  it  up,  but  strong  as  he  was 
in  the  arms  it  would  not  move.  He  looked  around,  then  picked 
up  a  bar  of  metal  that  had  once  been  part  of  the  chancel-rail, 
inserted  it  in  the  ring  as  a  lever  and  the  stone  yielded.  A  hor- 
rible mouldy  odor  came  up  from  the  opening,  which  disclosed 
a  stone  stair. 

"  Be  careful,  Ferruccio,"  she  cried,  as  he  began  to  descend  it. 

In  a  moment  he  was  up  again. 

"  It  is  a  burial  place,"  he  said  hoarsely;  "  the  dead  lie  there." 

The  withered  face  showed  all  the  Italian's  instinctive  horror 
of  death.  He  reached  for  the  flask  of  wine  that  was  near  and 
put  it  to  his  lips. 

"  Of  course,"  said  Margaret,  "  it  is  the  crypt  of  the  chapel. 
Now  remember,  Ferruccio,  I  have  trusted  you;  play  me  no 
tricks." 

"  Some  day  when  I  put  the  jewels  in  the  Signora's  hands," 
he  said,  "  she  will  know  that  poor  Ferruccio  speaks  the  truth. 
I  will  light  the  lantern  and  go  down  again  and  reconnoiter. 
This  evening  after  dark  I  will  step  out  by  the  covered  stairway 
that  leads  from  the  sacristy  to  the  ground  and  bring  in  my  pick- 
ax and  tools,  which  I  hid  under  the  vines  against' the  wall  last 
night.  To-morrow  when  the  Signora  comes  again  I  may  have 
something  to  report ;  if  not,  the  Signora  can  watch  for  an  oppor- 
tunity when  it  will  be  safe  for  us  to  go  to  the  apartments  of 
Donna  Lorina." 

"  I  do  not  know  about  that,"  Margaret  said.  "  The  last 
owner  of  the  castle  had  many  places  walled  up,  but  if  you  will 
say  where  these  apartments  are  I  might  be  able  to  tell  you 
whether  there  is  any  communication  with  them." 

"  I  will  take  you  there,  Signora,"  was  all  the  reply  he  made. 

And  Margaret  went  away  saying  to  herself,  "  Ferruccio  is  a 


272  A  Cry  of  Youth 


shrewd  one.  He  does  not  trust  me  as  much  as  I  trust  him. 
There  must  be  some  truth  in  all  this  and  yet  I  wonder  if  I  am 
a  raving  fool  to  have  taken  a  hand  in  it !  " 

Next  morning  when  she  visited  him  he  told  her  he  had  found 
a  door  in  the  crypt  opening  into  a  gallery  that  probably  led  to 
the  vaults;  the  other  end  of  it  seemed  to  be  closed  with  fallen 
stones  and  mortar  and  it  would  be  a  work  with  his  pickax  to 
clear  it  away  in  order  to  pass  further  on,  so  he  proposed  that 
they  go  above  and  see  how  things  looked  there. 

It  was  with  a  mixture  of  apprehension  and  repressed  excite- 
ment that  Margaret  followed  him,  for  Leone's  hand  being  bet- 
ter, he  had  left  his  room,  and  she  did  not  know  where  he  had 
gone;  but  fortunately  the  dwarf  took  her  through  parts  not 
frequented  by  the  present  household  and  finally  after  many 
turnings  and  stairs  that  were  strange  to  her,  they  were  abruptly 
stopped  by  a  wall  of  new  brick. 

They  looked  aghast  at  one  another;  it  would  take  workmen 
with  tools  to  make  an  entrance. 

"  I  was  afraid  we  would  find  it  so,  Ferruccio,"  Margaret  said 
disconsolately.  "  What  can  we  do?  " 

"  Wait,  gentilissima"  he  replied,  undaunted ;  "  there  is  the 
front  door  in  the  small  court.  We  have  come  by  back  corri- 
dors to  avoid  being  seen,  for  the  other  way  we  must  pass  through 
the  central  hall." 

But  Margaret  was  afraid  to  attempt  it  until  the  daylight  was 
dim,  so  they  retraced  their  steps  to  meet  again  at  sundown. 

When  the  time  came  she  left  Leone  dozing  on  the  couch  in 
the  cedar  room  and  tiptoed  out  until  her  footsteps  were  beyond 
hearing,  when  she  began  to  run,  making  toward  the  keep  and 
its  great  central  hall.  Crossing  it,  she  moved  stealthily  in  and 
out  between  the  marble  columns,  looking  for  the  dwarf  in  its 
dusky  vastness.  But  Ferruccio  was  not  there.  Had  he  played 
her  false?  Had  he  made  up  this  wonderful  story  as  a  ruse  to 
be  allowed  to  stay  a  night  or  so,  and  if  there  were  anything  of 
value  left  in  the  castle,  had  he  got  safely  away  with  it  ? 


The  Passage  in  the  Crypt      273 

While  she  stood  there  shivering  from  nervousness  as  well  as 
from  cold,  she  heard  a  sound  like  the  click  of  a  latch,  and, 
looking  in  its  direction,  saw  the  dwarf. 

"  Where  did  you  come  from?  "  she  asked,  in  consternation. 

He  showed  her  a  clever  door,  frescoed  over  like  the  rest  of 
the  wall  and  of  which  she  had  not  known  the  existence.  It 
opened  upon  a  narrow  inside  staircase,  and  though  it  aroused 
her  curiosity  there  was  no  time  now  for  investigation,  and  they 
cautiously  proceeded.  It  was  about  the  time  when  Clemente 
was  likely  to  come  with  his  torch  to  light  the  lamps  in  the 
living  quarters  and  after  they  had  passed  certain  frequented 
parts  Margaret  breathed  more  freely.  They  went  up  a  broad 
stairway  in  the  ghostly  gloom  and  crossed  a  covered  gallery 
that  looked  down  into  a  small  inner  court  between  the  main 
building  and  the  north  wing,  to  a  door  trimmed  with  metal  and 
a  knocker  that  had  a  familiar  aspect.  A  satisfied  smile  was 
upon  the  old  man's  face,  as  he  easily  pushed  it  open  and  took 
her  hand  to  guide  her  down  two  or  three  steps.  As  he  struck 
a  match  she  had  the  sense  of  having  been  in  the  place  before,  and 
as  the  flame  touched  the  candle  the  light  struck  upon  a  suit  of 
ancient  armor,  standing  upright  beside  a  long  carved  chest. 
She  gave  a  gasp.  It  was  here  that  she  and  Leone  had  come 
one  summer  day  and  hidden  the  habit  of  a  Franciscan  monk, 
and  that  figure  of  ancient  armor  was  guarding  the  secret  of  her 
life  and  his,  as  well  as  the  secret  of  Donna  Lorina. 

"  This,  Signora,"  said  the  dwarf,  rapping  the  door  he  was 
closing  behind  them,  "  is  the  front  door  to  these  apartments 
which  make  almost  a  small  castle  within  a  castle." 

But  Margaret  did  not  answer.  She  was  looking  at  the  chest 
and  at  the  grim  armor  as  if  beseeching  it  to  tell  no  tales. 

"  Now  we  shall  see,"  Ferruccio  continued,  lifting  a  panel  of 
moth-eaten  tapestry  opposite,  that  covered  another  door,  but  all 
efforts  to  open  this  one  were  vain.  Striking  it  with  his  heavy 
fists,  they  could  tell  by  the  sound  that  it  was  securely  barred 
from  behind  and  Margaret  guessed  that  Fauvel's  artistic  eye 


274  A  Cry  of  Youth 

had  not  wished  to  spoil  the  effect  of  this  antechamber  of  the 
condemned  apartments  by  another  wall  of  ugly  brick,  so  had 
hung  the  tapestry  over  the  chief  entrance,  closing  them  from 
the  other  side. 

"  Well,"  said  Ferruccio,  desisting  at  length,  "  there  is  noth- 
ing to  do  now  but  clear  the  gallery  from  the  crypt.  There  is  a 
passage  that  comes  up  from  the  vaults  into  this  part  of  the 
house.  I  know  it  well;  many  a  time  have  I  gone  down  that 
way  for  firewood." 

"  My  husband  and  the  padrone  sometimes  go  down  into  the 
vaults,"  Margaret  began ;  "  I  once  saw  the  padrone  with  a  big 
key  which  he  told  me  belonged  to  an  iron  door  that  went  down 
into  the  vaults,  so  there  must  be  another  way." 

"  There  is,  Signora,  from  a  sort  of  cellar  back  of  the  kitchen 
and  storehouse,  but  your  servants  would  see  us  even  if  we 
could  get  the  key.  I  know  that  door  was  always  kept  locked, 
for  I  tried  it  twice  last  summer  after  dark  when  there  was  no 
one  around,  but  now  it  is  winter  and  the  servants  stay  indoors. 
No,  the  only  thing  to  do  is  to  clear  the  gallery,  come  up  from 
there  and  make  my  soundings  in  the  room  in  which  Donna 
Lorina  disappeared." 

But  the  work  of  clearing  that  passage  from  the  crypt  was  a 
longer  and  more  difficult  task  than  Ferruccio  had  anticipated, 
and  each  day  when  Margaret  visited  him,  bringing  him  food  and 
oil  for  his  lantern,  he  reported  but  slow  progress. 

"  You  may  be  killed,  Ferruccio,"  she  said,  "  down  there  all 
alone;"  but  he  replied  that  he  was  very  careful.  "And, 
Signora,"  he  added,  "  Donna  Lorina's  star  of  diamonds,  her 
most  glorious  jewel,  shines  to  guide  me.  All  the  years  of  my 
wanderings  I  have  seen  that  star  shining,  seen  it  in  my  dreams ; 
it  has  led  me  through  many  countries  and  many  years,  back, 
back  to  old  Rocca,  and  I  know  that  I  shall  see  it  again  before 
I  die." 

When  Margaret  had  almost  lost  interest  and  hope,  the  whole 
thing  was  such  a  doubtful  story,  there  was  Ferruccio  still  going 


The  Passage  in  the  Crypt      275 

down  regularly  past  the  niches  where  the  dead  lay,  and  willing 
to  risk  his  life.  Yes,  there  must  be  some  truth  in  it,  and  it 
made  her  very  thoughtful,  so  that  Leone  would  often  say, 
"  Come  back  to  earth,  Margherita.  Of  what  dost  thou  think? 
Silent  so  long!  "  And  once  when  he  insisted  upon  knowing 
her  thoughts,  she  replied,  "  Perhaps  I  am  mentally  composing  a 
novel,  which  some  day  I  may  write." 

"Ami  in  it?  "he  asked. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered,  "  all  of  us.  It  will  be  about  Rocca 
Serrata,  but  we  shall  all  have  different  names,  of  course,  and 
perhaps  I  shall  make  more  money  with  my  prose  than  you  can 
with  your  poetry." 

Leone's  hand  was  well  enough  for  him  to  amuse  himself  with 
a  game  of  "  solitaire  "  as  he  talked. 

"  You  must  have  a  villain  in  it,  you  know,"  he  went  on,  "  to 
make  it  a  good  seller,  a  real  bad  one.  I'll  fix  him  for  you; 
we'll  write  him  up  to  resemble  that  hideous  one,  the  dwarf. 
He  has  not  shown  himself  around  here  for  many  a  day;  he 
knows  better." 

At  that  moment  a  rumbling  sound  was  heard  below. 

"  Diavolo!  "  he  exclaimed,  starting  from  his  seat.  "  What  is 
that?" 

Margaret  turned  cold.     Was  it  Ferruccio  at  work? 

Clemente  happened  to  be  in  the  room  at  the  time  and  was 
called  upon  for  an  explanation. 

"  I  have  heard  that  noise  several  times  lately,  Signore,  and 
the  only  way  I  can  account  for  it  is  that  the  workmen  in  the 
quarry,  at  the  back  of  the  great  rock,  sometimes  use  a  blast 
which  strikes  a  vein  in  the  mountain  that  carries  the  sound 
along  for  a  good  distance." 

Margaret  shuddered.  Had  Ferruccio  been  hurt,  she  won- 
dered. Perhaps  he  had  reached  the  end  of  the  passage  and  the 
sound  of  the  final  blows  of  his  pick  had  rolled  through  the 
opening,  echoing  along  the  vaults. 

Leone  seemed  satisfied  with  what  Clemente  had  said   and 


276  A  Cry  of  Youth 


continued  his  game ;  but  Margaret  could  hardly  sleep  that  night 
from  her  apprehension  for  Ferruccio  —  suppose  he  had  been 
injured  or  killed  in  the  passage!  As  she  drew  near  the  chapel 
next  morning  she  was  almost  afraid  to  open  the  door ;  but  there 
he  was,  shaking  in  a  corner  on  his  mattress  which  she  had 
managed  to  have  him  get,  his  face  bright,  but  looking  pale  and 
ill. 

"  I  have  come  to  the  end,  Signora,"  he  cried  cheerfully;  "  last 
night.  The  way  is  now  clear  to  the  vaults.  We  can  go  up  at 
any  time  right  into  the  closed  apartments,  unless  I  am  very  much 
mistaken.  But,  Signora,"  he  added,  "  I  am  ill.  Ever  since  I 
crawled  back  here  I  feel  as  if  I  could  never  move  again.  All 
night  I  have  frozen  with  chills,"  and  he  began  to  shake. 

"  It  is  malaria,"  she  said,  "  from  working  underground  and 
sleeping  in  this  damp  place.  I  will  bring  you  some  quinine  and 
strong  red  wine  and  to-morrow  we  must  find  a  safe  room  for 
you  upstairs." 

But  on  the  morrow  Ferruccio  was  too  ill  to  move.  Mar- 
garet began  to  be  alarmed.  She  dared  not  tell  of  his  being 
there ;  the  servants  would  not  tolerate  him  any  more  than  would 
Leone,  and  she  was  afraid  he  might  die  on  her  hands.  He  was 
so  docile,  so  respectful  and  gentle  that  she  had  begun  to  have  a 
pitying  affection  for  him,  as  one  has  for  a  faithful  dog.  She 
realized  that  he  must  have  a  fire.  She  spied  an  old  bronze 
brazier  in  the  sacristy  that  it  took  all  her  strength  to  drag  out, 
and  then  she  purloined  from  Clemente's  stores  a  sack  of  char- 
coal which  she  pulled  after  her  down  all  the  length  of  long 
corridors  with  the  utmost  difficulty,  and  the  poor  sick  creature 
smiled  contentedly  when  he  saw  the  ruddy  light  and  felt  the 
warmth,  as  she  sat  down  beside  the  battered  brazier  and  fanned 
the  lighted  coals  into  life,  and  heated  broth  which  she  held  to 
his  lips. 

"  I  think  you  are  an  angel  come  down  from  heaven,"  he 
would  say  when  she  waited  upon  him,  and  his  faded  eyes  spoke 
the  gratitude  he  could  not  express. 


The  Passage  in  the  Crypt      277 

"  Ah !  I  will  bless  the  day  when  I  put  the  jewels  into  the 
Signora's  beautiful  hands  that  she  has  soiled  for  a  poor  outcast 
like  me.  She  will  go  straight  to  heaven  when  she  dies,  she  is 
an  angel." 

And  Margaret  would  say,  "  Don't,  Ferruccio;  I  am  far  from 
being  an  angel.  Pray  for  me;  don't  praise  me." 

She  lived  in  such  constant  anxiety  for  fear  of  being  detected 
and  of  having  him  die  and  the  secret  of  the  jewels  die  with  him 
that  she  became  restless  and  .irritable  under  the  strain.  If 
Leone  were  only  sensible,  she  would  confide  in  him,  but  she 
dared  not,  knowing  his  disposition.  Oh,  if  Fauvel  were  here 
she  would  go  boldly  and  trust  him  with  the  great  secret,  and  he 
would  come  and  prescribe  for  poor  Ferruccio  and  counsel  and 
advise. 

"  Where  do  you  go,  Margherita  ?  "  Leone  said  sometimes. 
"  Often  I  want  you  and  I  call.  I  look  for  you,  but  I  cannot 
find  you.  I  ask  the  servants,  '  Where  is  the  Signora  ?  '  '  Chi 
lo  sa'  they  make  answer ;  '  who  knows  ?  '  not  they.  W'hat  are 
you  about,  going  off  by  yourself?  " 

And  on  these  days  Margaret  would  not  dare  to  make  her 
visits  until  he  had  gone  out.  Then  she  would  steal  off  to  the 
central  hall,  where  she  had  learned  to  use  the  clever  door,  dis- 
appear into  the  frescoed  wall,  run  up  the  interior  stair  to  the 
top  floor  of  the  Keep,  cross  the  length  of  the  house  in  safety, 
and  come  down  another  stair  not  far  from  the  chapel.  She 
also  made  a  systematic  search  in  every  place  that  was  open  to 
her  for  some  picture,  tapestry,  or  carving  that  might  have  for 
its  subject  cupids  and  dolphins.  Again,  at  dusk,  she  would 
wander  off  to  that  part  of  the  castle  where  Ferruccio  had  first 
taken  her  and  stand  face  to  face  with  the  wall  of  new  bricks 
and  wonder  if  really  and  actually  it  were  all  that  stood  between 
her  and  the  dazzling  treasure  in  which  the  poor,  simple,  old  man 
believed  so  firmly.  Sometimes  she  would  lose  herself  in  her 
haste  to  get  back  to  Leone,  for  the  corridors  were  all  so  alike, 
and  how  glad  she  would  be  at  last  to  see  the  familiar  Signs  of 


278  A  Cry  of  Youth 

the  Zodiac  leading  to  her  own  apartments,  and  a  glimmer  of 
light  far  down  the  long  perspective. 

She  became  so  engrossed  with  all  this,  and  the  care  of  her 
patient,  preparing  his  food  when  Lisa  was  away  from  the 
kitchen,  reading  his  symptoms  in  Fauvel's  medical  books,  dodg- 
ing Leone  and  the  servants  in  her  visits  to  and  from  the  chapel 
that  time  no  longer  hung  heavily  on  her  hands,  and  she  scarcely 
noticed  that  here  and  there  hilltops  had  thrown  off  their  win- 
ter covering,  that  the  big  snow  image  made  by  Beppo  and 
Leone  in  the  courtyard  had  almost  melted,  and  was  surprised 
when  the  latter  announced  that  the  ice  had  broken  up  in  the 
river,  and  the  flamingoes  were  flying  northward. 

There  was  one  patch  of  snow  on  a  certain  part  of  the  tow- 
ering rock  overshadowing  the  castle  that  was  always  the  last 
to  go,  and  one  morning  as  Margaret  awoke  and  looked  from 
her  window  the  white  patch  was  gone,  the  sky  a  brighter  blue, 
the  air  warmer,  trees  and  shrubs  had  put  forth  green  leaves,  the 
long,  dreadful  winter  was  over. 

The  spring  brought  back  Carlotta  looking  prettier  than  ever 
with  her  wealth  of  red-gold  hair,  arranged  in  the  latest  style, 
and  her  smart  gowns.  Margaret  did  not  encourage  her  visits 
as  formerly.  It  was  hard  enough  to  manage  her  interviews 
with  Ferruccio,  and  to  have  another  person  to  consider  would 
complicate  matters  still  more.  Very  soon  now  he  would  be 
strong  enough  to  continue  the  search,  for  he  was  improving 
every  day. 

Carlotta  talked  a  great  deal  about  herself,  her  success,  and 
admirers,  and  boasted  of  the  invitations  she  had  received  for 
the  summer. 

"  You  were  very  foolish,"  Margaret  said,  "  not  to  ac- 
cept them.  Why  should  you  want  to  bury  yourself  here,  I 
cannot  understand.  With  your  looks  and  voice  and  oppor- 
tunities you  ought  to  be  —  well,  '  making  hay  while  the  sun 
shines.'  " 

"  You  live  here,  Signora,"  the  girl  answered. 


The  Passage  in  the  Crypt      279 

"  It  is  different  with  me,"  Margaret  replied.  "  This  is  my 
home  and  I  have  ties." 

"  Perhaps  I  too  have  ties,  Signora,"  and  Carlotta  sighed  a 
little  affectedly.  "  Papa  is  growing  old." 

Margaret  had  never  remarked  any  special  filial  devotion  in 
the  girl,  who  went  on  in  a  rather  injured  tone,  "I  thought  you 
would  be  glad  to  have  me  come  back;  you  used  to  say  it  was 
horribly  dull,  particularly  when  the  Signor  Artista  is  away." 

"  Yes,  it  is  duller  than  ever  when  Fauvel  is  not  here,"  Mar- 
garet answered  innocently,  "  and  I  am  glad  to  see  you,  my 
dear.  I  was  only  thinking  of  your  interests.  You  ought  to 
make  a  good  match." 

"  Oh,  I  do  not  think  about  marriage,"  she  replied.  "  I  have 
my  art"  (an  expression  learned  from  Fauvel).  However, 
down  in  her  secret  soul  it  was  a  mortification  to  her  that  she 
was  not  married.  For  an  Italian  girl  to  be  in  her  twenty-fifth 
year  and  unmarried  was  a  dreadful  state  of  affairs.  There 
were  plenty  of  men  in  her  own  walk  of  life  who  would  have 
given  their  right  eyes  to  be  the  husband  of  Santoni's  beautiful 
daughter,  but  she  spurned  them  scornfully.  She  was  attractive 
enough  to  marry  a  gentleman  at  least,  if  not  a  nobleman. 
Other  lovely  singers  of  obscure  birth  made  fine  matches,  then 
why  not  she? 

Until  she  had  met  Belmonte  these  had  been  her  sentiments, 
but  since  then  all  was  changed.  All  could  go  —  art,  ambition, 
pride  —  for  that  starry-eyed  Adonis  who  lived  in  a  tumble- 
down rookery  near  her  native  village,  where  things  were  at 
least  five  hundred  years  behind  the  times.  Alas!  Adonis  was 
married  and  absurdly  faithful;  but  while  there  is  life  there  is 
hope,  and  she  continued  to  wonder  how  he  could  think  twice 
between  her  blonde  beauty  and  the  dark-haired  American  with 
her  school-girl  face  and  figure. 

"  I've  seen  him,  I'm  sure  I've  seen  him,"  Leone  cried,  run- 
ning down  into  the  garden  to  where  Margaret  and  Carlotta 
were  talking. 


280  A  Cry  of  Youth 

"  Who,  who  ?  "  they  both  exclaimed. 

The  jettatura,  the  Italian  name  for  a  creature  cursed  and 
cursing  with  the  Evil  Eye,  is  untranslatable,  because  we  need 
no  such  noun ;  Leone  declared  now  that  he  had  seen  the  "  jetta- 
tura" 

"  I  had  gone,"  said  he,  "  into  the  studio  for  some  chalk,  and 
happened  to  look  from  a  window,  and  I  was  sure  I  saw  him 
with  his  back  against  a  big  stone.  I  tore  downstairs  and  out 
there,  but  he  had  gone.  I  could  swear  it  was  he,  but  where 
could  he  go  so  quickly?  If  he  takes  to  coming  round  here 
again  I'll  smash  his  head  —  I'll  kill  him!  " 

"Hush  —  Hush!"  said  Margaret,  trembling  inwardly. 
"  What  foolish,  extravagant  talk.  You  don't  mean  that." 

"  I  do,"  he  declared.  "  Is  it  not  enough,  the  dire  tragedy  he 
brought  us  before,  without  risking  any  of  his  black  magic  again  ? 
I'll  kill  him  dead." 

"  Signer  Belmonte  is  right,"  said  Carlotta;  "  the  dwarf  is  a 
thing  of  evil." 

"  I  cannot  understand,"  Margaret  said,  "  this  insane  hatred 
of  a  poor,  deformed  creature.  It's  purely  your  imagination ;  in 
reality,  he  has  done  nothing.  He  only  digs  for  worthless  weeds 
that  we  do  not  want." 

"  He  has  been  forbidden  to  come  here,  you  know  it,  Margher- 
ita,"  said  Leone. 

"  Yes,  I  know,  but  how  many  of  us  do  things  that  we  are 
forbidden  to  do  —  all  our  lives."  With  that  she  turned  away 
and  went  toward  the  house,  leaving  Carlotta  and  Leone  to- 
gether. 

Of  course  it  was  Ferruccio,  who  had  stolen  out  to  get  the 
warmth  of  the  spring  sunshine  through  his  frozen  bones;  it  did 
him  more  good  than  anything  else,  these  morning  airings,  and 
they  had  thought  it  quite  safe  for  him  to  do  so.  He  sat  on  a 
rock  in  the  sun  over  by  the  ruins,  where  nobody  went  for 
months  at  a  time  and  none  of  their  windows  looked  out  upon 
it.  What  perverse  fate  could  have  taken  Leone  over  to  the 


The  Passage  in  the  Crypt      281 

closed  studio?  Well,  she  must  tell  Ferruccio  to  be  more  cau- 
tious—  poor  old  man! 

"  The  signora  is  not  simpatica"  remarked  Carlotta,  when 
Margaret  was  gone.  "  It  is  hard  for  a  man  when  his  wife  goes 
against  him." 

"  The  Signora  is  American,  she  does  not  understand,"  he  an- 
swered curtly. 

"  I  wonder  do  all  American  women  treat  their  husbands  as 
she  treats  hers?  " 

"  What  do  you  mean?  " 

"  She  snubs  you  so,  Signore,  and  criticizes  you.  The  man 
knows  best  what  he  is  talking  about  —  non  e  ver?  You  are  a 
man,  not  a  child ;  she  should  obey  you  and  respect  you." 

"  She  is  all  right,  the  Signora,"  Leone  said  quickly.  "  She 
is  only  an  American  and  she  cannot  help  that,  and  it  is  not 
becoming  in  you  her  guest,  to  criticize  her." 

"  Forgive  me,  Signore,"  Carlotta  said  meekly.  "  I  am  only 
the  daughter  of  an  innkeeper  and  she  is  aristocratica,  but  I 
cannot  help  seeing  things." 

"What  things?" 

The  two  were  seated  on  some  steps  at  the  further  end  of  the 
garden.  Leone  dug  his  heel  into  the  soft  sod.  "  What 
things?"  Still  no  answer.  He  turned  and  faced  her,  and 
the  blue  eyes  met  the  brown.  She  was  looking  particularly 
pretty  then,  in  a  charming  gown  which  had  an  air  about  it  that 
Margaret  in  her  old-style  shirt-waist  and  skirt  e  ivied.  Car- 
lotta's  complexion  was  pink  and  white  and  the  sun  shone  on 
her  glorious  hair,  turning  it  to  a  fiery  gold.  For  the  first 
time  Leone  thought  her  beautiful,  saw  her  as  Fauvel  had  seen 
her  from  an  artistic  standpoint,  and  she  caught  the  glance  of 
admiration  in  his  eyes.  The  soft  April  breeze  blew  around 
them,  bringing  whiffs  of  fresh  earth  and  early  blossoms ;  spring 
and  love  were  in  the  air.  Suddenly  she  threw  her  arms  about 
his  neck  and  whispered: 

"  Kiss  me,  bel  Leone." 


282  A  Cry  of  Youth 

He  drew  back,  surprised  and  utterly  shocked. 

"  Signorina,  you  forget  yourself,"  he  said. 

"  I  do  not,  nor  you  either  —  have  you  no  wish  for  love?  " 

"  I  love  only  the  Signora  Margherita,  my  precious  wife,"  he 
said  soberly. 

Carlotta  gave  a  mocking  laugh. 

"  She  does  not  love  you." 

"  What  do  you  mean?  "  he  asked  harshly. 

"  I  told  you  I  could  not  help  seeing  many  things,  and  I 
think  you  are  blind  or  stupid  not  to  see  them  yourself.  Do  you 
not  hear  her  say  so  often  how  dull  it  is  without  Signor  Fauvel?  " 

"  And  I  say  so,  too.     No  one  is  better  company  than  he." 

"  So  she  thinks,  and  is  it  not  strange  when  they  are  together 
they  speak  almost  always  in  French,  which  neither  you  nor  I 
understand  ?  " 

"  It  is  his  native  language  — " 

"Ah! — but  it  is  not  hers." 

"  Whatever  the  Signora  says  in  any  language  is  sure  to  be 
right,"  Leone  said  coldly. 

"  You  think  so ;  that  is  well.  Have  you  ever  noticed  when 
Signor  Fauvel  is  at  home  how  he  makes  pencil  sketches  of  her 
all  the  time?  He  would  paint  you  and  me  for  the  public  eye, 
but  the  sketches  of  the  Signora  he  keeps  for  himself." 

"  Nonsense!  "  Leone  exclaimed,  rising  as  if  tired  of  the  con- 
versation ;  "  if  my  uncle  wants  to  sketch  my  wife  because  she  is 
pretty  and  graceful,  he  is  welcome  to;  and  it  is  very  bad  form 
in  you  to  eat  his  bread  and  sleep  under  his  roof  and  yet  talk 
against  him  and  a  lady  who  is  gracious  enough  to  receive  you 
as  a  friend." 

"Stop,  stop,  Signore  Leone!"  for  he  was  walking  away; 
she  rose  also.  She  had  one  more  thrust:  "  Perhaps  you  do  not 
know  that  when  the  baby  died  after  you  had  been  drugged  to 
make  you  sleep,  he  spent  the  night  in  her  room." 

Leone  turned  op  her  furiously:  "  How  dare  you  speak  such 
lies!  The  Signora  is  above  reproach,  also  Fauvel.  I  would 


The  Passage  in  the  Crypt      283 

trust  them  together  to  the  ends  of  the  earth.  But  I  have  heard 
tales  of  you,  Carlotta  Santoni.  It  is  said  in  the  village  that 
sometimes  when  the  hunting  parties  of  fine  gentlemen  stop  at 
her  father's  home  the  handsome  daughter  entertains  them  if  the 
consideration  is  high  enough,  and  hoodwinks  her  respected 
father,  who  thinks  her  a  good  girl.  I  told  this  to  the  Signora 
Margherita,  but  she  would  not  believe  it.  And  yet  you  would 
defame  her  —  how  dare  you!"  And  he  seized  her  by  the 
shoulders  and  shook  her  until  her  teeth  chattered.  "  How  dare 
you,"  he  repeated,  "  you  common  peasant,  you  jackdaw  in  pea- 
cock's plumes,  you  meddling  minx !  Be  off  from  here  and  never 
come  back! "  With  that  he  loosed  his  hold  and  sent  her 
starting  forward. 

"  Ough !  "  she  screamed,  in  a  passion  of  rage.  "  How  dare 
you  touch  me!  Also  I  hear  things  said  of  you.  You  are  not 
really  the  nephew  of  Fauvel ;  nobody  knows  who  you  are  —  his 
bastard,  perhaps.  Oh,  but  you  shall  smart  for  this,  Leone  Bel- 
monte!  May  you  die  of  apoplexy,  may  your  little  dead  come 
back  to  torture  j^ou!  I'll  be  revenged,  wait  and  see,  you  virtu- 
ous fool,  you  handsome  simpleton,  you  — "  but  the  last  epithet 
was  lost  upon  him,  for  he  had  gone  and  Carlotta  took  herself 
off,  her  blood  boiling  with  anger,  a  desperate  look  in  her  blue 
eyes  and  vengeance  in  her  heart. 

When  Leone  entered  the  house  he  was  stopped  by  Beppo, 
who  had  been  to  the  village  for  the  mail.  There  was  one  let- 
ter for  Margaret  and  one  for  himself  from  Fauvel  which  said 
"  urgente  "  in  the  corner,  so  he  sat  down  and  opened  it  immedi- 
ately. Presently  Margaret  came  in  and  took  up  hers. 

"  I  ought  to  have  heard  from  home  by  this  mail,  but  here's 
next  best,  from  dear  Giacinta." 

It  was  a  short  letter,  which  she  quickly  finished,  but  Leone 
was  still  poring  over  his. 

"  What  is  it,"  she  asked;  "  anything  wrong  with  Meurice?  " 

"  No,"  he  answered  slowly,  without  looking  up,  "  only  he 
wants  me  to  go  away  for  two  or  three  days.  He  is  preparing. 


284  A  Cry  of  Youth 

for  his  lectures  on  '  Archaic  Art  in  Ancient  Towns,'  and  wants 
me  to  go  to  these  places  and  look  up  matters  he  has  listed  down 
here  and  write  him  information  —  mostly  dates.  For  some  of 
them  I  will  have  to  get  permissi*  from  the  authorities.  Ah! 
Dio  mio,  I  do  not  want  to  go.  It  means  leaving  thee,  Mar- 
gherita,  for  three  days,  three  whole  days  and  nights.  I  have 
never  left  thee  alone  before,  tesoro  mio" 

Here  was  the  opportunity  Margaret  had  been  waiting  for 
to  make  the  great  search. 

"  When  does  he  want  you  to  go?  "  she  asked. 

"  At  once.  I  will  start  early  to-morrow.  I  must  send  the 
horses  to  be  shod  to-day." 

Early  the  next  morning  Leone  stood  impatiently  waiting  for 
Beppo  to  bring  round  the  horses  and  summon  him.  He  was 
always  ready  ahead  of  time,  for  his  monastic  training  had  made 
him  very  prompt. 

He  and  Margaret  were  in  the  cedar  room  together;  she  held 
an  ancient-style  storm  coat  that  she  insisted  upon  his  taking,  as 
the  weather  was  still  cold  towards  nightfall,  and  was  telling 
him  not  to  worry  about  her. 

"  But  I  shall  worry,  carissima;  if  there  were  only  railroads 
and  comforts  for  women,  I  might  take  thee.  I  hate  to  leave 
thee  with  no  one  to  speak  to  but  servants  — " 

"  Nonsense,  nonsense,  Leonino !  Here's  Beppo,"  as  the  boy 
appeared  in  the  doorway. 

"  A  more  mio"  Leone  whispered,  taking  her  in  his  arms,  "  I 
feel  that  I  do  wrong  to  leave  thee  here  alone.  For  no  one  else 
in  the  world  but  Fauvel  would  I  do  so." 

"  Dearest,  I  am  not  one  bit  afraid,  and  I  will  have  Lisa  sleep 
in  my  room.  I  will  find  plenty  to  do,"  she  said,  and  she  fol- 
lowed him  to  the  gates. 

"A  r'wederci,  A  more"  he  called  out,  as  he  turned  in  his 
saddle  to  throw  her  one  last  kiss,  and  she  waved  to  him,  smil- 
ing. How  splendidly  he  rode,  she  thought,  and  how  handsome 

*  Permits. 


The  Passage  in  the  Crypt      285 

he  looked  in  his  tan  corduroy  and  high  riding  boots !  Then  she 
turned  and  went  indoors,  and  the  old  house  seemed  strangely 
desolate. 

She  ran  to  the  tower,  up  and  up  until  she  reached  the  top 
and  saw  him  cantering  away  in  the  spring  sunshine  with  Beppo 
at  a  respectful  distance  behind,  and  watched  him  until  he  was 
out  of  sight,  as  Donna  Lorina  had  watched  her  lover  fifty  years 
before. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

*  WHERE  CUPID  GUARDS  AND  DOLPHINS  SWIM  " 

i 

All  is  dead  here 

Joy  has  fled  here 

Let  us  hence,  'tis  the  end  of  all 

The  gray  arch  crumbles 

And  totters,  and  tumbles, 

And  silence  sits  in  the  banquet  hall. 

T  B.  ALDRICH. 

"  It  had  better  be  to-day,  Signora.  The  young  Signore  might 
return  unexpectedly,  eh  ?  And  then  our  search  would  be  post- 
poned again,"  so  said  Ferruccio  a  little  later  when  Margaret 
had  gone  to  the  chapel  to  report  that  the  "  coast  was  clear  "  at 
last  and  that  she  was  free  to  leave  her  apartments  as  long  as 
she  chose  without  fear  of  being  watched  or  questioned. 

"  We  must  have  a  lantern  apiece,"  Ferruccio  continued,  "  and 
it  would  be  best  for  the  Signora  to  wear  something  old  that  she 
does  not  fear  to  spoil." 

"  I  do  not  think  I  could  do  much  damage  to  any  of  my 
clothes,"  Margaret  answered  a  little  plaintively,  thinking  of 
her  now  scanty  wardrobe,  "  but  I  have  a  short  skirt  I  could 
put  on.  I  will  be  back  here  in  half  an  hour,"  and  she  has- 
tened away.  She  felt  herself  almost  lifted  off  her  feet  with 
the  nervous  excitement  of  exhilaration  and  covered  the  space 
quickly  between  the  chapel  and  her  rooms  where  she  found 
Lisa  putting  things  to  rights. 

"  You  may  bring  my  luncheon  up  here,"  she  said  to  the 
woman,  "  it  is  too  lonely  to  eat  by  myself  downstairs."  The 
truth  was,  she  was  under  too  tense  a  sense  of  something  im- 
pending to  want  to  be  alone. 

"  Signora,"  said  Ferruccio,  when  she  was  again  in  the  chapel, 
"  while  you  were  gone  I  went  out  to  get  the  sun  through  me 
and  see  what  I  found,"  handing  her  an  unopened  letter. 

286 


"Where  Cupid  Guards"       287 

It  was  directed  to  herself  and  from  her  sister  Josephine,  the 
letter  she  had  been  expecting  with  the  other  mail  yesterday. 
Beppo  must  have  dropped  and  lost  it.  How  disgracefully  care- 
less of  him!  She  tucked  it  inside  her  waist;  the  home  news 
that  she  was  usually  so  eager  for  could  wait  now.  She  looked 
like  a  vivandiere  with  her  short  skirt  and  high  boots,  a  sort  of 
old  knapsack  in  which  she  carried  a  few  tools  slung  over  her 
shoulder;  and  Ferruccio  with  his  pickax,  his  short,  misshapen 
body  and  long,  scraggy  beard,  suggested  a  hobgoblin  from  a 
child's  picture  book. 

He  raised  the  slab  that  covered  the  entrance  to  the  crypt  and 
taking  up  his  lantern  began  to  descend.  Margaret  stood  at  the 
top  of  the  steps  looking  down  into  the  darkness;  now  that  the 
moment  had  actually  come,  her  courage  failed. 

"  Do  not  be  afraid  of  the  dead,  Signora,"  Ferruccio  said, 
seeing  her  hesitate.  "  These  are  good  dead ;  they  are  quiet. 
All  the  weeks  1  have  lived  here  they  have  never  disturbed  me; 
their  souls  are  at  rest." 

"  I  am  not  afraid  of  the  dead,"  Margaret  replied,  and  pick- 
ing up  her  lantern,  followed  him. 

The  crypt  was  like  many  another  she  had  seen  in  Italy,  a 
stone  altar  at  one  end  corresponding  to  the  altar  above,  and 
tombs  in  the  walls  and  floor,  but  what  attracted  her  attention 
was  a  crude  pine  coffin.  From  some  feeling  of  morbid  curi- 
osity she  went  close  to  it  and  holding  up  the  lantern  saw  there 
was  one  word  painted  on  it  —  she  knew  that  style  of  lettering 
—  it  was  Fauvel's. 

"  Come  back,"  she  cried  to  Ferruccio,  who  was  going  on  to 
the  opening  of  the  passage,  "  look,  look  here!  " 

"What  is  it,  Signora?" 

"  This  name,  this  one  word  —  '  Lorina  '?  " 

"What!  "  he  exclaimed. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  you  have  passed  here  all  these  times 
and  never  noticed  this?  "  Margaret  said  excitedly;  "  here  is  the 
grave  of  Donna  Lorina.  Look,  read  for  yourself !  T' 


288  A  Cry  of  Youth 

"  Alas,  Signora,  I  cannot  read  — " 

"  Some  one  has  found  her  body  and  buried  it  here  — " 

"  May  God  rest  her  soul!  "  he  said,  and  dropped  upon  his 
knees. 

"  I  do  not  think  it  is  worth  while  to  go  on,"  Margaret  said 
dejectedly.  "  This  lettering  does  not  appear  to  be  more  than  a 
few  years  old.  The  person  who  found  her  body  found  her 
jewels;  it  is  useless  to  go  further." 

"  No,  no,  Signora,"  cried  the  old  man,  rising;  "  this  may  be 
her  body,  but  the  jewels  she  hid  —  Count  Steno  never  found 
them,  that  I  know.  Last  night  I  dreamed  again  of  the  dia- 
mond star,  it  was  brighter  than  ever,  now  blue  —  red  —  green 
—  then  a  dazzling  white.  It  led  me  down  here  through  the 
vaults  up  to  where  I  last  saw  her,  then  into  the  ruins  and  there 
stopped;  but  it  did  not  vanish  and  I  woke  to  find  one  big  star 
shining  through  my  window.  And  I  promised  the  Blessed 
Mother  that  if  I  ever  got  back  to  Rocca  Serrata,  and  found  the 
jewels,  I  would  have  that  star  set  in  a  crown  and  placed  upon 
her  head  at  one  of  her  shrines  in  some  church.  If  I  close  my 
eyes  I  can  see  it  now  —  it  shines,  it  sparkles,  it  points  —  Our 
Lady  wants  that  star  and  she  will  help  us.  Come,  Signora 
Gentilissima,  come.  " 

Margaret  reflected.  Because  some  one  had  found  the  open- 
ing from  Donna  Lorina's  room,  it  did  not  of  course  follow  that 
they  had  found  anything  else,  so  she  said,  "  Very  well,"  and 
walked  with  him  toward  the  passage;  but  all  the  zest  of  the 
undertaking  had  gone,  workmen  had  been  at  the  castle  tearing 
down  and  walling  up;  and  nine  chances  to  ten  they  had  found 
the  jewels  and  said  nothing. 

The  passage  was  narrow,  uneven  and  low ;  it  must  have  been 
choked  up  for  centuries,  she  thought,  and  walking  over  debris 
was  difficult;  but  when  she  came  out  of  it  she  felt  hard,  level 
ground  under  her  feet  and  looking  up  saw  she  was  in  the  great 
vaults  of  Rocca  Serrata.  "  Oh,  how  magnificent !  "  she  cried. 
Immense,  ponderous  arches  rolled  on  and  on  one  after  another 


"Where  Cupid  Guards"        289 

into  obscurity,  rounding  from  the  mighty  walls  as  if  upholding 
the  weight  of  the  world.  But  Ferruccio  was  disappearing  in 
the  darkness  ahead  of  her,  she  could  only  see  his  lantern,  so  she 
hurried  after  him.  They  passed  a  flight  of  stairs  cut  out  of 
solid  rock,  leading  down  into  inky  blackness.  "  Where  does 
that  go  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  To  the  dungeons,"  he  replied,  stooping  and  picking  up 
something,  and  she  saw  it  was  a  torch,  which  he  proceeded  to 
light,  giving  her  the  other  lantern. 

On  they  went  through  an  endless  succession  of  arches,  the 
flaring  torch  showing  the  wonder  and  symmetry  of  the  archi- 
tecture. Then  they  came  to  a  wall  that  apparently  divided  the 
structure ;  it  had  one  arched  opening  through  which  they  passed 
into  another  portion  of  the  building  and  she  was  surprised  to 
find  the  daylight  coming  in  through  dug-out  windows  strongly 
barred,  and  then  she  remembered  that  the  rock  upon  which  the 
castle  stood  sloped  decidedly  on  the  north  and  what  would  be 
the  ground  floor  on  her  side  of  the  house  would  be  the  third 
story  here.  As  they  proceeded  a  horrible  thought  struck  her: 
suppose  anything  were  to  happen  to  Ferruccio,  she  would  be  lost. 
When  Leone  returned  he  would  look  for  her  everywhere  else 
before  thinking  of  coming  down  here.  The  oil  in  her  lanterns 
would  only  last  a  few  hours,  and  then  —  she  blew  out  one  of 
them.  Why  had  she  not  left  a  note  giving  an  idea  of  where 
she  had  gone;  or  at  least  she  might  have  brought  white  beans 
like  "  Hop  o'  my  Thumb  "  to  drop  as  she  went.  Just  as  terror 
was  getting  the  upper  hand,  Ferruccio  opened  a  small  door  of 
grated  iron  and  she  saw  a  spiral  passageway  winding  up  around 
a  great  circular  pillar  of  masonry.  It  had  a  cement  floor  and 
walls,  with  now  and  then  a  slit  for  a  window.  Ferruccio  ex- 
tinguished his  torch  and  entered.  They  wound  round  it,  going 
higher  until  it  brought  them  at  last  into  a  white-washed  space 
flooded  with  sunshine,  and  she  could  look  down  upon  the  cas- 
tellated roof  of  a  lower  part  where  rusty  cannon  pointed  out 
threateningly.  Then  Ferruccio  opened  another  door  and  she 


290  A  Cry  of  Youth 

found  herself  amidst  melancholy  remnants  of  departed  gran- 
deur. These  apartments  showed  the  havoc  that  had  been 
wrought  by  the  rifling  of  their  rich  decorations.  Carvings  had 
been  wrenched  from  cornices,  fixtures  of  hanging  lamps  were 
broken  away,  and  one  could  see  where  tapestries  had  been  liter- 
ally cut  from  the  panels.  Dust  lay  thick  upon  everything,  and 
a  mournful  silence  reigned. 

"  Ah,  Madre  dl  Dio"  sighed  Ferruccio,  as  he  gazed  about 
sadly,  "  how  changed,  how  changed !  " 

There  was  no  furniture;  it  had  either  been  moved  to  the 
more  modern  parts  of  the  house  or  taken  away  altogether.  As 
they  came  to  a  stair  Ferruccio  paused.  "  How  many  times  at 
night,"  he  said,  half  to  himself,  "  have  I  stood  here  listening  to 
the  drunken  carousals  of  Count  Steno  and  his  friends  in  the 
hall  below !  "  Next  he  showed  her  a  large  sort  of  living  room 
with  a  dark  ceiling  of  carved  cypress  wood  that  had  partly 
fallen  and  what  was  left  seemed  likely  to  fall  at  any  moment; 
opposite  was  a  door  with  heavy  iron  bars  across  it. 

"Can  you  guess  where  that  leads  to,  Signora?"  he  asked, 
pointing  to  it. 

"  No,"  answered  Margaret. 

Very  cautiously  he  stepped  over  the  floor,  she  following, 
fearful  lest  the  timbers  should  come  down  upon  their  heads. 
Ferruccio  removed  the  bars  and  opening  the  door,  lifted  a  cur- 
tain weighted  at  the  bottom  and  let  her  look  out. 

"  Oh,"  she  exclaimed,  "  is  this  what  lies  beyond !  How  many 
times  have  I  stood  in  there  and  longed  and  longed  to  be  on 
this  side." 

She  was  peering  into  the  well-known  antechamber.  There 
was  the  suit  of  ancient  armor  and  there  was  the  old  chest,  and 
hidden  in  it  a  monk's  habit. 

"  How  much  time  and  trouble  we  might  have  saved  if  we 
could  have  gotten  in  this  way,"  she  said.  Now  she  saw  for 
herself  why  Fauvel  had  cut  cff  communication.  Time  had 


'Where  Cupid  Guards"        291 

been  disastrously  at  work  in  the  half  century  since  the  tragic 
end  of  Donna  Lorina. 

Ferruccio  reclosed  and  barred  the  door,  and  Margaret  no- 
ticed, as  they  tiptoed  back  over  the  floor  so  as  not  to  jar  the 
ceiling,  that  there  were  ashes  in  the  fireplace;  no  one  had  taken 
the  trouble  to  clean  it  since  the  last  person  had  warmed  himself 
there.  After  going  through  the  other  rooms  —  empty,  fune- 
real and  dismantled  —  he  stopped.  "  Here,"  he  said,  "  is  where 
my  lady  disappeared." 

Margaret  looked  around.  This  room,  as  Ferruccio  had  said, 
had  but  one  door.  It  contained  a  common  table,  a  three-legged 
stool,  and  an  old-fashioned  wicker  bird  cage.  The  floor  was 
of  brick,  the  woodwork  ordinary,  and  the  walls  and  ceiling  of 
rough  plaster.  From  the  windows  she  could  see  below  the  ad- 
joining ruins,  roofless  in  parts  and  overgrown  with  vines.  She 
perched  herself  upon  the  table  and  motioned  Ferruccio  to  be 
seated  on  the  stool,  that  they  might  rest  while  consulting. 

"  What  was  this  used  for  in  your  day  ?  "  was  her  first  ques- 
tion. 

"  As  a  sort  of  catch-all,  Signora ;  you  see  it  is  not  handsome 
like  the  others." 

"  And  that  ?  "  she  added,  pointing  to  an  enormous  wardrobe 
set  in  the  wall ;  "  it  looks  big  enough  to  keep  house  in." 

"  The  clothing  of  Donna  Lorina  was  kept  there,"  he  replied. 

"  Then,"  said  Margaret,  "  Donna  Lorina  must  have  gone 
away  through  it." 

"  But,  Signora,  it  cannot  be  moved,  it  is  a  part  of  the  house." 

"  I  see  that,  but  there  must  be  some  secret  door  inside,  there 
must  be." 

"  I  looked  inside  over  and  over  and  could  find  nothing.  At 
first,  naturally  I  supposed  she  was  hiding  there." 

Then  Margaret  made  him  tell  her  again  the  story  of  the  mad 
flight  through  the  rooms. 

"And  you  never  thought  of  a  secret  exit?"  she  asked. 
"  Look  at  the  thickness  of  those  walls !  " 


292  A  Cry  of  Youth 

"  I  was  young  and  ignorant,  Signora.  I  had  never  heard  of 
such  things.  I  thought  only  of  what  I  could  see." 

"  Open  it." 

He  rose  and  obeyed.  The  cabinet  was  perhaps  four  feet 
deep,  ten  feet  long  and  quite  high.  It  was  empty,  half  of  it 
having  wooden  pegs  to  hold  clothing,  like  an  ordinary  closet. 
Margaret  jumped  down  from  the  table  and  came  over  to  in- 
spect. Outside  it  was  of  paneled  chestnut,  but  inside  of  rough 
boards.  She  took  a  hammer  from  her  knapsack  and  handed  it 
to  Ferruccio.  He  began  to  make  soundings  with  it. 

"There  is  nothing  here,"  he  said;  "hark,"  knocking  again, 
"  it  is  solid  wall." 

Margaret  stepped  inside,  throwing  both  doors  wide  open  and 
examining  it  thoroughly.  There  was  no  sign  of  "  trap-door  " 
in  the  floor,  but  on  the  end  opposite  the  pegs,  where  the  closet 
was  fitted  into  the  wall,  the  boards  were  smaller  and  divided 
into  upper  and  lower  parts  with  a  ledge  of  wood  like  a  frame. 

"  Strike  there,"  she  said. 

Ferruccio  struck  a  blow.  The  sound  came  back  hollow. 
They  looked  at  each  other;  he  struck  again.  There  was  no 
mistake,  it  was  hollow  behind  the  boarding.  The  perspiration 
broke  out  upon  the  dwarf's  forehead. 

"  It  is  here,"  Margaret  cried.  "  If  necessary,  we  must  beat 
the  boards  down,  we  can  fix  them  up  afterwards;  but  there 
must  be  a  spring,  a  catch — "  With  trembling  hands  she  felt 
along  all  four  sides  of  the  framework;  she  was  just  able  to 
reach  the  top  but  could  detect  nothing. 

"Wait,  though,  does  this  mean  anything?"  and  she  touched 
a  large  knot  in  the  rough  wood  near  the  frame  that  stood  out 
prominently ;  "  wait,"  she  added  excitedly,  "  I  think  I  feel  it 
move,  but  I  have  not  strength  enough;  you  try,  Ferruccio." 

He  put  his  large  thumb  upon  the  knot  and  the  boarding 
suddenly  flew  back  from  the  framework  —  it  was  a  spring 
door. 

Margaret   gasped.     "  Here,    here,"    she   exclaimed.     "  Oh, 


"Where  Cupid  Guards9'        293 

you  stupid  fellow,  to  have  searched  three  days  and  never  to 
have  thought  of  this !  " 

Ferruccio  was  passing  his  hand  over  his  eyes,  dumbfounded. 
Margaret  pushed  the  door  far  back  and  disclosed  steps  descend- 
ing. She  could  only  see  the  first  three  or  four,  after  that  all 
was  darkness. 

Here  was  great  evidence  to  the  truth  of  Ferruccio's  story. 
At  the  bottom  of  the  steps  she  already  saw  the  jewels  waiting 
for  her,  she  had  only  to  go  down  and  pick  them  up.  But  with 
the  birth  of  the  hope,  doubt  again  assailed  her;  some  one  else 
had  been  here  before  them  and  had  found  the  body  and  the 
jewels  as  well. 

Ferruccio  had  recovered  his  self-possession  and  had  brought 
the  lanterns  and  the  torch  and  was  preparing  to  descend.  But 
Margaret  held  back.  The  crypt  and  the  vaults  were  "  scary  " 
enough,  but  this  dense  thick  blackness  was  terrible!  This  nar- 
row rough  stair  leading  they  knew  not  where ;  perhaps  to  some 
horrible  "  oubliette  "  which  would  give  way  with  them  and 
send  them  down  to  a  frightful  death;  to  say  nothing  of  delib- 
erately entering  a  part  of  the  castle  that  was  known  to  be  un- 
safe—  oh,  she  could  not! 

"  Are  you  coming,  Signora  ?  "  Ferruccio  asked.  He  had  gone 
down  several  steps  and  was  waiting  for  her. 

"  It  is  so  dark,"  she  faltered. 

"  We  must  go  on,  though,"  he  said,  "  to  find  where  '  Cupid 
guards.'  It  is  not  dark  to  me,  for  I  see  the  star  shining." 

"  He  has  lost  his  mind,  too,"  Margaret  said  to  herself,  "  poor 
old  thing!  O  Leone,  O  Fauvel,  suppose  I  never  come  back!  " 

Then  she  followed  him  fearfully,  feeling  the  way  with  her 
hand  down  the  rough  sides.  It  was  stifling,  she  could  scarcely 
breathe ;  but  the  darkness  only  lasted  for  a  space,  then  the  stair 
turned  a  sharp  angle  and  she  saw  faint  daylight;  they  had  de- 
scended into  a  small  chamber  concealed  within  the  thickness  of 
the  walls,  which  measured  here  probably  eighteen  feet.  A  ray 
of  sunshine  was  coming  in  from  a  narrow  shaftlike  opening  in 


294  A  Cry  of  Youth 

the  ceiling,  which  was  of  stone  like  the  floor  and  the  walls, 
giving  just  enough  light  and  air  to  make  the  place  habitable* 
It  took  only  a  moment  to  see  that  they  must  go  still  further  on 
in  their  search;  no  cupids,  no  dolphins,  no  ornamentation  of 
any  kind,  were  visible.  There  was  only  a  half  burnt  candle, 
its  dripping  wax  hardened  in  a  metal  candlestick,  a  withered 
apple  dried  like  a  mummy,  a  stone  seat  against  the  wall,  and  on 
the  floor  a  heap  of  straw. 

Had  some  one  once  lived  in  this  cell,  Margaret  thought,  and 
for  what  motive  had  it  been  built  and  was  it  where  Donna 
Lorina  had  died  ?  She  believed  Ferruccio  must  be  thinking  the 
same,  for  he  was  looking  around  as  if  for  some  trace  of  the  lost 
lady  and  shook  his  head  dolefully. 

"  Oh,  dear,"  Margaret  sighed  listlessly,  "  I'm  sure  we  will 
never  find  them." 

"  Coraggio,  Signora ;  shall  we  go  on  ?  " 

"  Very  well,"  she  said  indifferently,  and  taking  up  their  lan- 
terns Ferruccio  opened  a  narrow  oak  door  which  was  just  wide 
enough  for  one  to  pass  through  at  a  time  and  they  saw  another 
flight  of  steps  going  still  downwards ;  descending,  they  came  to 
a  zigzag  passage  densely  black  and  close. 

Margaret  began  to  be  thoroughly  alarmed.  Had  they  lost 
their  way?  —  they  had  made  so  many  turnings!  Suppose  the 
lanterns  were  to  go  ou£ ;  oh,  why,  why  had  she  come !  "  Where 
are  we,  Ferruccio  ?  "  she  demanded. 

"  In  the  ruins;  cannot  the  Signora  tell  that  we  are  winding 
between  walls?  " 

"  We  are  risking  our  lives  then.  The  padrone  has  forbid- 
den any  one  to  go  into  the  ruins  unless  he  takes  them.  Let  us 
go  back;  I  am  frightened." 

The  air  was  hot  and  suffocating.  She  could  scarcely  breathe, 
and  her  eyes  seemed  strained  out  of  their  sockets  as  she  groped 
her  way  after  him. 

"  No  woman  would  ever  venture  into  a  hole  like  this  to  hide 
a  bag  of  jewels,"  she  added  irritably. 


"Where  Cupid  Guards"       295 

"  Donna  Lorina  was  not  a  sane  woman,"  he  made  answer 
gently.  "  Come,  Signora,"  and  he  took  her  hand  and  held  his 
lantern  out  ahead  of  them.  "  Here  is  another  stair;  when  we 
have  come  to  the  bottom  of  it  we  will  be  on  the  ground  floor." 

Margaret  allowed  herself  to  be  half  led,  half  dragged  along; 
a  faintness  and  nausea  stole  over  her.  This  was  how  Donna 
Lorina  had  died,  tangled  up  in  the  horrible  labyrinth ! 

They  had  reached  the  stair.  Taking  a  semi-circular  curve 
like  a  corkscrew,  it  showed  that  they  were  in  a  round  tower  and 
it  brought  them  down  to  a  landing  before  the  rough  inner  side 
of  a  door. 

"  How  is  this?  "  said  Ferruccio,  peering  with  his  lantern  for 
a  latch,  a  key,  or  some  way  of  opening  it;  then  near  the  bottom 
they  found  a  clumsy  knob. 

"  Push  it  up,"  said  Margaret ;  "  it  is  a  slide." 

Sure  enough,  with  a  creaking  noise  the  door  slid  upward  and 
they  saw  a  peculiar  octagonal-shaped  room  in  the  base  of  the 
ruined  north  tower. 

Margaret  gave  a  sigh  of  intense  relief  as  they  stepped  out. 
Oh,  how  good  the  daylight,  and  the  fresh  cool  air! 

She  looked  about,  drawing  in  several  deep  breaths.  There 
was  nothing  encouraging  to  their  quest  here.  The  tower  butted 
into  a  small  yard,  enclosed  by  a  high  wall,  and  the  room  in 
which  they  found  themselves  was  formed  of  oak  paneling  with 
heavy  ornamental  clampings  of  metal,  each  panel  made  to  re- 
semble a  door.  Two  of  them  were  actually  doors,  and  she 
thought  the  person  who  had  put  the  new  lock  upon  the  one 
toward  the  yard  might  have  spared  himself  the  trouble,  for  the 
wall  there  in  spite  of  its  thickness  had  crumbled  away  from 
the  slit  window  above  the  paneling,  leaving  an  open  space  and 
any  agile  person  might  easily  climb  inside.  The  opposite  door 
had  fallen  from  its  age-worn  hinges  and  was  lying  upon  the 
ground ;  through  it  they  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  interior  of  the 
ruins,  a  mournful  sight. 

Margaret's  hope  was  almost  extinguished  as  she  took  in  the 


296  A  Cry  of  Youth 

unfavorable  surroundings,  but  she  was  thankful  beyond  words 
to  get  out  of  that  horrible  passage  alive  and  unhurt. 

"  Let  us  pull  down  this  slide,"  she  suggested,  as  nothing  else 
presented  itself ;  "  perhaps  it  may  be  painted  with  the  device 
we  are  searching  for";  but  when  adjusted  it  proved  to  be  a 
panel  exactly  like  the  others,  completing  the  eighth  side  of  the 
room. 

"  What  now?  "  she  asked,  looking  about  disconsolately. 

The  dwarf  closed  his  eyes  and  thought,  scratching  his  head. 

She  could  not  doubt  the  story  of  Donna  Lorina  since  she  had 
seen  her  coffin,  but  as  for  the  jewels,  they  were  an  hallucination 
of  the  old  man's  brain.  "  He  is  half  cracked,"  she  said  to  her- 
self, watching  him. 

His  lips  were  moving  as  if  in  prayer,  otherwise  he  was  per- 
fectly quiet.  Margaret  became  impatient.  "  What  now,  Fer- 
ruccio  ?  " 

He  opened  his  eyes.  "  We  must  get  out  there,"  he  said, 
pointing  to  the  yard.  "  I  cannot  seem  to  see  the  star  anywhere 
else.  Can  you  climb,  Signora?  " 

"  Yes,  indeed,"  she  would  go  to  the  bitter  end  now,  though 
$he  expected  nothing. 

A  portion  of  the  wall  had  fallen  inside,  by  which  they 
climbed  to  the  hole  that  had  once  been  a  window.  Ferruccio 
went  first,  as  usual,  up  the  pile  of  debris,  passed  through  and 
stood  a  little  below  on  another  heap.  He  held  out  his  arms. 
"  Jump,  signora!  "  She  did  so.  Oh,  thank  God,  she  now  felt 
safer!  The  yard  was  out  of  doors  and  though  there  might  still 
be  danger  from  tottering  walls,  there  was  no  ceiling  or  floor 
to  give  way.  But  what  a  fool  she  had  been !  What  delusion ! 
Here  they  were  at  the  end  of  their  journey,  in  an  overgrown 
yard  with  yawning  holes  in  the  high  enclosure.  Wild  cucum- 
ber, henbane,  nettles  and  "  Christ  thorn  "  clung  to  its  moulder- 
ing stones  and  from  somewhere  she  heard  a  bird  twittering; 
everything  else  was  dead,  dank,  rotting!  She  was  tired  out 
and  disgusted  with  herself.  It  served  her  right,  she  thought,  to 


"Where  Cupid  Guards"        297 

have  been  taken  in  by  a  peasant's  tale.  She  felt  sorry,  how- 
ever, for  the  old  dwarf. 

"  Oh,  my  poor  Ferruccio,"  she  began,  then  stopped  short. 

What  was  he  doing  over  there,  pushing  the  tangled  vines 
away  from  the  wall  ?  It  was  an  old  dry  fountain  he  had  uncov- 
ered. The  figures  above  the  basin  were  so  weather-beaten, 
scarred  and  chipped  that  they  looked  to  be  little  more  than  an 
unrecognizable  heap. 

She  came  nearer.  What  was  there  about  it  that  so  interested 
him;  had  he  lost  his  senses  entirely?  'Where  Cupid  guards 
and  dolphins  swim,'  "  she  heard  him  mutter. 

"What!"  she  cried.     "What?" 

He  was  not  mistaken.  There  in  the  ancient  fountain  a  cupid 
astride  a  dolphin  could  with  difficulty  be  discerned,  to  such  an 
extent  had  the  wear  and  tear  of  centuries  marred  the  sculpture. 

"  Where  Cupid  guards  and  dolphins  swim,"  he  repeated,  look- 
ing at  her. 

"  Yes,"  she  said  very  slowly,  using  great  self-control.  She 
would  not  allow  herself  to  hope  even  now.  "  Yes,  cupid  and 
the  dolphins  are  here,  but  where  are  the  jewels?  Gone,  gone, 
long  ago." 

"  Not  so,  Signora ;  they  are  here.  I  will  find  them  if  I  dig 
to  the  foundations  of  old  Rocca,"  and  he  began  to  pull  furiously 
at  the  tangled  weeds  that  grew  up  between  the  cracks  in  the 
basin. 

"  Wait,"  she  said,  struck  with  a  sudden  idea.  "  Wait,  Fer- 
ruccio — " 

The  mouth  of  the  dolphin  was  open  and  large,  for  in  olden 
times  a  stream  of  water  had  flowed  from  it.  She  put  her  hand 
inside  the  fish's  mouth  and  drew  it  out  again,  turning  very 
white. 

"  I  felt  something,"  she  almost  whispered  in  suppressed  ex- 
citement ;  then  in  a  firmer  voice,  "  but  probably  some  substance 
had  blown  in  there." 

"  Feel  again,  Signora,  your  little  hand  can  get  in  further  than 


298  A  Cry  of  Youth 

my  big  one,  pull  it  out,"  and  he  pushed  her  trembling  arm 
toward  it  once  more. 

Again  she  inserted  her  hand  and  drew  out  a  dirty,  damp 
object  which  the  dwarf  snatched  from  her  with  a  loud,  exultant 
cry,  kissing  it  and  pressing  it  to  his  heart.  "  San  Antonio  be 
praised!  San  Antonio,  the  helper  of  all  who  seek  what  they 
have  lost.  It  is  my  old  pouch,  Sjignora,  the  same,  the  same  that 
I  put  the  jewels  into  fifty  years  ago!  " 

Then  he  threw  up  his  cap  like  a  boy  of  ten,  and  spun  round 
and  round  the  yard  in  a  wild,  triumphant  whirl,  uttering  glee- 
ful, incoherent  sounds  and  calling  benedictions  on  all  the 
saints.  But  as  his  excitement  increased  Margaret  became 
calmer.  She  would  not  be  deluded.  She  was  prepared  for  dis- 
appointment. 

"  Your  pouch,  yes,"  she  said,  "  but  full  of  stones." 

"  Precious  stones ;  look,  Signora !  "  He  knelt  down  upon  a 
remnant  of  pavement  and  unfastened  the  pouch.  Margaret 
closed  her  eyes.  She  heard  a  tinkling  noise  and  Ferruccio  ex- 
claimed: "  Look;  ah,  look!  " 

Despite  the  dust  of  ages,  there  was  a  glitter  and  sparkle  in 
the  mass  that  met  her  sight.  A  gasp  of  wonder  and  joy  es- 
caped her  lips.  She  dropped  on  her  knees  beside  him;  here 
before  her  shining  like  Truth  wao  the  lost  treasure ! 

She  made  an  effort  to  speak,  but  was  dumb ;  she  did  not  know 
whether  she  were  going  to  faint  from  sheer  delight,  but  she 
mastered  herself  and  was  able  to  form  two  words:  "  Oh,  Fer- 
ruccio !  " 

"  Look  at  them,  touch  them,  Signora;  they  are  ours,  all  ours." 

She  took  up  a  heart  of  diamonds  with  a  ruby  in  the  center 
like  a  drop  of  blood,  a  half  moon,  a  lyre,  rings,  brooches,  chains 
of  massive  gold,  and  last  of  all  the  famous  guiding  star,  large, 
sharp-pointed  and  still  glistening  enough  to  catch  the  rays  of 
the  sun,  now  in  the  meridian. 

"  Let  us  put  them  back,"  he  said,  glancing  around  furtively, 
"  when  we  are  once  more  in  the  chapel  we  will  divide  them. 


'Where  Cupid  Guards"        299 

Ah,  Signora,  did  I  not  say  this  should  be  the  luckiest  day  of  your 
life!  And  now  you  will  believe  I  am  not  the  '  evil  eye,'  just  a 
poor  old  man  who  came  to  find  what  was  his  own." 

"  My  good  honest  Ferruccio,"  Margaret  said,  as  they  picked 
up  the  jewels,  admiring  them  one  by  one  and  dropping  them 
again  into  the  pouch,  "  you  must  never  go  away  from  here ;  you 
shall  live  in  a  comfortable  room  and  be  kindly  treated  and  have 
a  respected  easy  old  age.  But  do  not  let  us  go  back  through 
that  awful  passage,  I  cannot  imagine  what  it  was  built  for!  " 

"  Nor  I,  Signora ;  Donna  Lorina  must  have  discovered  it  by 
accident,  but  it  does  not  matter  as  long  as  it  brought  us  to  where 
'  Cupid  guards.'  " 

"  No,  it  does  not  matter,  only  I  should  like  to  know  its  pur- 
pose," she  said,  as  they  rose. 

Had  the  light  of  their  lanterns  penetrated  a  little  beyond  the 
slide  through  which  they  emerged  they  would  have  seen  that  the 
passage  went  on  around  the  tower,  taking  a  sudden  dip  under- 
ground, and  had  they  cared  to  explore  still  further  they  would 
have  found  that  it  was  there  tunneled  out  of  solid  rock  and  con- 
tinued on  some  distance  until  it  ended  in  an  iron  door  opening 
upon  the  mountain,  which  was  cleverly  hidden  by  rocks  and 
shrubs.  It  had  been  used  in  feudal  times  to  bring  supplies  and 
men  into  the  castle  during  long  sieges,  but  for  centuries  the  en- 
trance  on  the  mountain  had  been  lost,  broken  rock  had  fallen 
and  a  thick  undergrowth  had  gathered  and  nature,  assisting 
man,  had  completely  concealed  it. 

Ferruccio  scanned  the  premises.  On  one  side  of  the  enclo- 
sure was  the  wreck  of  the  fallen  north  tower,  covering  a  pos- 
sible gate  or  some  means  of  exit;  then  he  measured  with  his 
eye  the  holes  where  the  stones  had  dropped  away,  to  which  she 
had  referred.  "  Yes,  Signora,"  he  said,  "  we  can  go  around 
outdoors.  If  we  had  but  known  where  '  Cupid  guarded  '  we 
need  not  have  come  the  other  way  at  all." 

"  Of  course  not,  but  it  makes  an  interesting  and  exciting  ex- 
cursion now  that  it  is  past  and  we  are  successful." 


300  A  Cry  of  Youth 

She  had  already  begun  to  think  what  she  would  do  with  her 
share  of  the  jewels.  Go  to  Perugia  and  turn  some  of  them 
into  money!  But  there  was  Leone  to  be  won  over;  he  might 
be  so  unreasonable  about  her  finding  them  through  the  dwarf 
that  he  would  prevent  this;  then  again  if  she  should  go  there 
before  his  return  how  could  she  account  for  the  money  and 
things  she  meant  to  buy,  unless  she  told  him? 

It  was  a  problem  that  she  was  too  excited  to  solve  now,  she 
must  take  time  to  think  and  plan,  but  oh,  the  chief  thing  was 
that  she  actually  had  them,  for  Ferruccio  had  put  the  pouch  in 
her  hand,  shouldered  his  pick-ax  and  taken  up  his  lantern  and 
torch. 

"  It  strikes  me,  Signora,  that  the  walls  inside  are  not  so 
likely  to  fall  as  this  outer  one;  see  how  it  slants  over  there?  " 

"  It  has  stood  all  these  years,  I  think  it  will  last  a  little 
longer,"  Margaret  said  laughing. 

She  ran  to  one  of  the  apertures,  which  looked  as  if  it  might 
have  been  beaten  through  at  some  storming  of  the  castle  by 
a  battering-ram. 

The  ground  outside  was  almost  even,  and  she  climbed  and 
wriggled  through  without  hurting  herself  and  saw  just  beyond 
the  old  well.  This  dangerous  spot  had  always  fascinated  her 
and  she  walked  toward  it.  The  big  tottering  stone  that 
Leone  was  often  tempted  to  push  in  lay  balanced  half  over 
the  edge.  Ough !  how  black  and  deep  the  water ;  had  she  ever 
been  mad  enough  to  think  of  ending  her  life  there  with  the  first 
shock  of  realizing  that  she  was  to  become  a  mother?  And  now 
how  glad  she  was  that  she  had  not.  The  blessed  memory  of  her 
little  son,  Leone's  still  devoted  love,  the  blue  sky,  the  green 
shrubbery,  even  in  its  rankness  among  these  ruins,  told  of 
bright  spring-time  and  her  phenomenal  luck.  Oh,  no,  life  was 
sweet,  and  she  thanked  God  she  lived. 

Suddenly  there  came  a  crash  behind  her.  Turning  in  alarm 
she  saw  part  of  the  wall  through  which  she  had  just  passed  in 
safety  had  given  way  and  loose  stones  were  tumbling  down,  one 


"Where  Cupid  Guards"        301 

on  top  of  the  other.  With  a  cry  of  horror  she  bounded  back, 
keeping  off  until  the  falling  should  cease.  She  could  see  to 
some  extent  inside  the  inclosure  now.  Where  was  Ferruccio? 
She  heard  a  groan.  "  Ferruccio,"  she  cried,  "  Ferruccio, 
where  are  you  ?  " 

Faintly  his  voice  replied,  "  Ecco  — " 

Almost  hidden  under  a  pile  of  fallen  stones  she  saw  him  lying 
with  a  gash  in  his  head.  "  Ferruccio,  oh,  Ferruccio." 

In  an  instant  she  was  kneeling  beside  him,  trying  to  extricate 
him;  but  he  groaned  again,  and  the  stones  were  so  heavy  she 
could  not  lift  one  of  them.  "  I  will  run  to  the  house  for 
Clemente,"  she  said.  "Oh,  my  poor  good  Ferruccio!" 

"  No,  no,  do  not  leave  me,  car  a  Signora,"  he  begged  faintly, 
"  I  am  dying." 

"  Oh,  not  that,  not  that!  It  can't  be  true,"  she  cried,  horror- 
stricken,  "  let  me  go  for  help  — " 

He  put  out  his  hand  and  caught  her  dress.  "  No  one  can 
help  me,"  he  whispered.  "  I  was  almost  through  when  my 
pick-ax  caught  on  a  loose  stone,  I  could  feel  it  drag  —  and  then 
—  the  wall  fell.  Cara  Signora,  do  not  leave  me  to  die  alone !  " 

"  No,  no,  but  you  must  not  die.  I  shall  feel  that  I  have 
killed  you,  for  not  going  back  the  other  way.  Oh,  I  shall 
never,  never  forgive  myself." 

"  Silenzioj  Signora,  I  am  old,  I  am  ill,  I  am  useless.  I  die 
happy — "  his  voice  grew  weaker.  "Heaven  has  granted  me 
the  wish  of  my  life,  to  find  the  jewels  of  Donna  Lorina  and 
to  have  you  believe  my  story.  You  do,  Signora,  you  do?  " 

"  Every  word  of  it." 

"  Signora,  I  give  them  all  to  you.  Come  closer.  Hide 
them.  Tell  no  one.  You  are  alone.  When  the  young  Sig- 
nore  returns  he  can  protect  you  and  them.  Signora  —  are 
you  there  ?  " 

"  Right  here,  dear  good  friend,"  Margaret  said  almost  sob- 
bing, "  close  beside  you,"  and  she  took  his  hard  knotty  hand 
and  stroked  it. 


302  A  Cry  of  Youth 


The  blood  was  pouring  from  the  wound  in  his  head.  She 
knew  the  meaning  of  that  yellow  pallor,  she  had  seen  it  on  her 
own  child's  face. 

"  Signora,"  he  whispered  again,  this  time  so  low  she  was 
obliged  to  bend  over  to  hear  him.  "  The  jewels  are  all  yours, 
but  the  star,  you  understand,  that  is  for  Our  Lady.  I  prom- 
ised it  to  her.  She  will  not  mind  your  wearing  it  during  your 
lifetime.  You  are  her  sweet  young  daughter,  and  she  blesses 
you  for  your  kindness  to  a  poor,  ugly  old  man  — " 

"Don't  say  that,  Ferruccio,  I  have  done  nothing  —  noth- 
ing—" 

He  closed  his  eyes  and  Margaret  thought  he  was  gone,  but 
after  a  moment  he  opened  them  again,  "  Signora,  are  you 
there?" 

"Yes,  yes—" 

"  It's  so  dark,  I  —  cannot  —  see  —  you  — " 
Margaret  took  his  cold  hand  in  both  of  her  warm  ones  and 
held  it  tight.     Oh,  what  could  she  do;  this  honest  faithful, 
simple  soul  should  have  a  priest,   and  the  last  rites  of  the 
Church. 

He  tried  to  raise  himself.  "  That's  it,"  he  gasped,  "  I  see  it, 
the  star  —  shining  —  like  silver,  there  —  over  —  there,"  and 
he  fell  back  dead. 

Down  upon  the  furrowed  countenance  Margaret's  tears  fell. 
She  knelt  on  for  some  moments  praying  for  his  soul,  then  she 
folded  his  hands  and  closed  his  eyes,  as  she  had  seen  Giacinta 
close  the  baby's  eyes. 

She  rose  and  pulled  up  some  shrubs,  though  the  thorns  tore 
her  hands,  and  covered  him  as  best  she  could  with  green 
branches;  then  she  picked  up  the  dirty  pigskin  pouch  that 
held  the  treasure,  all  hers  now,  and  taking  the  two  lanterns 
she  left  him.  No  one  would  know  that  the  jettatura  who  had 
been  the  terror  of  the  castle  lay  there,  for  stones  and  boughs 
concealed  his  body. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

THE  MURDERER 

Life's  richest  cup  is  Love's  to  fill  — 
Who   drinks    if    deep    the    draught   shall   be, 

Knows   all   the   rapture   of   the   hill, 
Blent  with  the  heart-break  of  the  sea. 

SAMUEL  ROGERS. 

Slowly  and  soberly  Margaret  walked  around  all  the  turn- 
ings and  towers,  up  the  terrace,  into  the  house  and  straight  to 
her  own  room. 

She  poured  water  into  the  basin  and  bathed  her  face  and 
hands,  then  she  sat  down  upon  the  couch,  wearied  out,  to  think. 
The  lunch  Lisa  had  brought  was  lying  upon  a  table  and  a  flask 
of  Chianti.  She  did  not  want  food  but  she  believed  a  glass 
of  wine  would  do  her  good.  She  went  over  to  the  table  and 
drank  a  few  swallows,  when  she  remembered  her  sister's  letter, 
which  poor  Ferruccio  had  found  and  given  her.  It  would 
draw  her  thoughts  from  the  fearful  thing  that  had  just  hap- 
pened and  of  which  she  dared  not  speak  to  the  superstitious 
servants. 

She  brought  the  Chianti  over  to  the  couch  and  making  her~ 
self  comfortable  with  pillows,  took  the  letter  from  her  blouse 
where  she  had  hastily  thrust  it  a  few  hours  earlier  and  broke 
the  seal. 

Instead  of  a  newsy  home  epistle  there  were  only  a  few 
lines,  with  another  letter  enclosed.  What  in  the  world  was 
Josephine  sending  her?  A  business  envelope  addressed  to  her- 
self !  Filled  with  curiosity  she  opened  it  and  something  fell  out 
—  a  check!  What  did  it  mean? 

A  draft  on  a  bank  in  Perugia  for  five  hundred  dollars,  made 
payable  to  Margaret  L.  Randolph  and  signed  "  Hartman  and 
Withers."  What,  what  does  this  mean ;  then  she  read : 

303 


304  A  Cry  of  Youth 

NEW  YORK,  April  — ,   19 — 
Margaret  L.   Randolph. 

DEAR  Miss  RANDOLPH:  We  beg  to  inform  you  that  by  the  will 
of  the  late  Cornelia  Randolph  Ward  you  are  named  as  sole  heiress, 
with  the  exception  of  a  few  legacies  and  personal  bequests  which 
are  left  to  friends  — 

What,  what  was  this? 

Cousin  Cornelia  dead,  and  she  her  heiress? 

Margaret  could  scarcely  hold  the  paper;  her  hand  was  shak- 
ing so  the  characters  danced  before  her  eyes. 

The  rest  of  her  wine  served  to  steady  her  nerves,  and  she 
read  on: 

We  trust  that  you  may  find  it  convenient  to  return  to  the  United 
States  promptly,  as  it  is  most  necessary  that  you  should  be  here 
for  the  settling  up  of  the  estate  which  consists  of  railroad  securi- 
ties, mining  stock,  bonds,  mortgages,  personal  and  real  estate,  both 
in  the  city  of  New  York  and  in  the  state  of  California. 

Mr.  Henry  Gill  Withers  of  the  undersigned  and  Mr.  Wallace 
J.  Grant  of  this  city  are  the  Executors  for  the  deceased. 

We  enclose  you  our  check  for  your  return  and  should  you  need 
more  you  will  kindly  advise  us. 

We  remain  very  truly  yours, 

HARTMAN  AND  WITHERS, 

Attorneys  at  Law. 
Cable  address: 
"  Withart " 

New   York 
Western  Union  code. 

Twice  she  read  the  letter  but  she  could  not  take  it  in.  She 
believed  she  was  dreaming;  but  how  skeptical  she  had  been 
about  the  jewels  and  here  they  were  beside  her! 

Oh,  no,  no,  there  was  no  mistake.  Cousin  Cornelia  had 
forgiven  her  and  left  her  her  money !  Oh,  for  some  one  to  re- 
joice with ;  for  some  one  to  whom  she  might  tell  the  good  for- 
tune. Should  she  cry  or  laugh  or  dance? 

She  arose  and  poured  out  more  wine.  She  felt  as  if  she 
could  drink  the  contents  of  the  entire  flask ;  she  needed  it  in  her 
intense  excitement. 

Now  what  did  Josephine  say? 


The  Murderer  305 

Dearest  Margaret: 

I  have  asked  Mr.  Withers  to  let  me  enclose  his  letter  with  mine, 
as  I  want  to  be  the  first  to  congratulate  you.  My  dear,  you  will 
have  a  stunning  income,  only  think  of  it!  Was  it  not  lovely  of  poor 
dear  Cousin  Cornelia?  She  has  left  me  some  of  the  heavy  old 
Randolph  silver  and  her  diamond  and  pearl  necklace  which  I  always 
envied,  and  Wallace  Grant  has  the  oil  paintings,  but  her  Fifth 
Avenue  house  and  almost  everything  else  goes  to  you.  Mother  and 
I  have  lately  had  an  idea  she  meant  to  leave  you  something,  but 
we  never  dreamed  of  all  this. 

Now  dearest  Peggie,  you  must  come  home  at  once,  by  the  very 
next  steamer,  as  we  are  wild  to  see  you  and  it's  most  important  that 
you  should  be  here.  I  am  arranging  a  room  especially  for  you, 
as  we  think  it  would  be  lonely  for  you  at  first  to  go  to  your  own 
house. 

Cable  us  what  steamer  you  will  sail  by  and  Phil  and  I  will  meet 
you. 

With  dearest  love  from  mother  and  all  of  us, 
Your    devoted    sister, 

JOSEPHINE. 

P.S.  I  think  you  owe  your  good  fortune  to  Wallace  Grant.  He 
has  talked  to  Cousin  Cornelia,  I  know,  and  told  her  she  was  rather 
hard  upon  you,  you  were  so  young  at  that  time.  Phil  is  sending  you 
papers  with  the  account  of  her  death  and  funeral. 

J.  D. 

This  letter  was  the  last  drop.  When  she  was  poor  and 
had  nowhere  to  go  there  was  no  room  for  her  in  Mrs.  Dacre's 
home,  but  now  —  "  we  think  it  will  be  too  lonely  for  you  to 
go  at  first  to  your  own  house." 

Margaret  threw  herself  on  the  couch  and  sobbed  aloud  from 
a  mixture  of  the  extreme  emotions  of  the  day. 

When  she  had  had  her  cry  out  she  felt  better  and  calmer  and 
then  came  a  rush  of  happiness  as  she  began  to  realize  it  all. 
She  could  go  home  at  last.  See  her  mother,  her  sister,  her  old 
friends,  her  native  land.  Home!  Home!  Home!! 

Her  lunch  made  her  ready  for  action. 

But  Leone  —  what  about  him  ?  Would  he  let  her  go,  would 
he  insist  upon  going  also?  She  thought  he  would  not  do 
the  latter,  but  he  might  upbraid  her  for  leaving  him  and  make 
it  very  hard.  She  must  go  at  once,  during  his  absence,  then 
there  would  be  no  wrench  of  parting  and  no  scene.  Yes,  she 


306  A  Cry  of  Youth 

must  go  now,  that  was  obvious  and  she  would  come  back  in 
two  months. 

She  went  into  his  room  and  found  a  Perugia  newspaper 
which  advertised  the  ocean  steamers  with  dates  of  sailing.  One 
left  the  day  after  to-morrow  from  Genoa  at  10  A.  M.  If  she 
could  get  to  Fossato  in  f'me  she  could  catch  the  train  for  Pe- 
rugia to-night,  go  to  the  bank  in  the  morning  and  on  to  Genoa, 
buy  her  ticket  and  some  necessary  things  for  the  voyage,  send 
her  cablegram  and  get  away.  Ah,  but  she  was  unknown  in 
Perugia  and  the  bank  would  not  honor  her  draft  without  iden- 
tification. 

What  could  she  do?  The  jewels!  She  would  pawn  some- 
thing and  raise  money  enough  for  the  journey,  and  when  she 
returned  in  June  could  redeem  it.  She  would  be  here  to  wel- 
come Fauvel  and  oh,  how  much  she  would  do  for  them  all, 
what  presents  she  would  bring! 

Surely  no  one  could  blame  her  for  leaving  when  her  family 
and  her  lawyers  had  sent  for  her.  Her  lawyers,  her  prop- 
erty, how  important  she  felt.  Then  she  caught  a  glimpse  of 
herself  in  the  wardrobe  mirror;  what  a  shabby  "dud"  Miss 
Randolph  was !  Her  sister's  maids  would  scorn  the  clothes  she 
had  on.  She  laughed  as  she  thought  of  it.  Never  mind;  she 
would  make  it  up  to  herself  when  she  once  got  back  to  the 
shops. 

Five  hundred  dollars  just  to  go  home  with,  and  she  was  to 
let  Hartman  and  Withers  know  if  she  needed  more;  the  draft 
though  waste  paper  in  her  present  circumstances  was  after  all 
the  confirmation  of  this  wonderful  thing,  and  she  laughed  as 
she  had  sobbed  a  few  minutes  before,  while  the  tragic  death  of 
poor  Ferruccio  also  added  to  the  tension  of  her  nerves. 

She  pulled  the  worn  bell  cord  so  violently  it  almost  snapped 
and  when  she  heard  the  old  servant  woman's  shuffling  steps  ap- 
proaching, she  tucked  the  pig-skin  pouch  under  a  pillow.  Fer- 
ruccio 's  warning  and  her  own  common  sense  told  her  neither  to 
speak  of  the  jewels  nor  tQ  show  them. 


The  Murderer  307 

"  Lisa,"  she  said,  "  bring  me  out  that  small  low  trunk  from 
behind  the  curtain,  and  then  I  want  you  to  go  and  tell  Clem- 
ente  to  harness  up  without  delay  and  drive  me  to  Fossato.  I 
am  going  away." 

"  Going  away,  Signora?  " 

"Yes,  I  have  had  news  from  my  home;  they  have  sent  for 
me.  A  cousin  of  mine  has  died  and  left  me  all  her  money ;  she 
was  rich,  very  rich." 

Margaret  felt  that  she  must  tell  her  good  news  to  some  one. 
"  And  that  is  why  I  must  go,"  she  continued,  "  to  attend  to  it 
—  my  property.  I  shall  be  back  again  by  the  end  of  June. 
Don't  stand  there,  make  haste,  I  have  so  little  time." 

Lisa  was  astounded.  That  a  young  lady,  a  wife,  should 
think  of  leaving  home  in  her  husband's  absence,  without  his  con- 
sent; it  was  beyond  words.  But  there  was  no  telling  what 
wild  thing  an  American  might  not  do;  they  had  come  from 
red-skinned  savages,  she  had  heard,  so  she  obeyed,  not  daring 
to  disobey,  though  disapproving;  all  the  while  Margaret  was 
sorting  clothing  and  articles  for  her  journey. 

"  Yes,  my  long  cloak,  that  will  do  on  the  steamer,  not  that 
brown  skirt,  Armida  may  have  that.  Give  it  to  her.  Oh, 
Lisa,  did  you  ever  hear  of  happiness  killing  one?  When  I 
come  back  I  will  bring  you  a  silk  dress  and  Clemente  a  gold- 
headed  cane.  Lisa,  pinch  my  arm;  hard,  harder.  I  want  to 
see  if  I  am  awake  or  dreaming.  Ah,  if  you  only  understood 
English,  you  could  tell  me  whether  I  have  read  this  letter 
aright ;  but  there  —  I  know  I  have,"  and  Margaret  continued 
to  throw  things  recklessly  in  the  trunk;  what  did  it  matter  if 
they  were  crumpled;  they  were  worn  out  and  old  fashioned, 
anyway ;  soon  she  would  have  everything  beautiful  and  new. 

And  Lisa  watched  her  open-mouthed,  believing  she  had  lost 
her  reason.  She  was  not  sure  but  that  she  ought  to  lock  her 
in  until  her  husband  returned. 

When  Lisa  was  gone  Margaret  took  from  the  hollow  stand 
of  a  Japanese  vase  where  she  had  hidden  it,  a  tiny  blue  and 


308  A  Cry  of  Youth 

white  shoe;  this  shoe  should  go  with  her;  then  she  found  a 
small  silk  bag  and  emptied  the  jewels  into  it  and  strung  it 
around  her  neck,  inside  her  clothing,  and  threw  the  pouch  out 
of  the  window.  Now  for  her  letter  to  Leone;  then  that  was 
all. 

"  Amore,"  she  wrote.  "  To-day  a  letter  from  my  sister  was  given  to 
me  saying  that  I  have  inherited  a  large  sum  of  money  and  they  have 
sent  for  me  to  come  home  at  once,  which  I  must  do,  to  sign  papers,  etc. 

"  It  is  hard  to  go  without  seeing  you,  but  the  sooner  I  leave  the 
sooner  I  can  come  back.  Look  for  me  when  your  roses  are  in  bloom. 
I  will  write  you  from  the  steamer,  and  again  as  soon  as  I  arrive 
in  New  York,  and  take  care  of  yourself,  for  I  love  you,  I  love  you, 
Leonino  mio. 

"  I  write  in  great  haste  as  I  must  reach  Fossato  in  time  for  the 
train  and  cannot  say  half  that  I  wish  to.  I  have  to  take  some  of 
your  magazine  money  to  pay  my  railroad  fare,  until  I  can  get  to 
Perugia.  I  will  send  it  back  at  once,  for  I  have  plenty  now  and 
when  I  return  we  can  do  so  much  and  have  all  we  want. 

"  I  will  bring  you  a  repeater '  watch  like  Fauvel's  and  a  Win- 
chester rifle. 

"  Love  me  and  trust  me,  my  own  dearest,  for  I  am 

"  Always  yours, 

"  MARGHERITA. 

"  P.S.  The  body  of  the  poor  dwarf  lies  over  by  the  ruins.  Give  it 
honorable  burial  for  my  sake.  He  was  good  and  honest,  as  I  can 
prove  to  you. 

"  M." 

Lisa  was  knocking  at  the  door.  "  Avanti!  "  she  called,  and, 
sealing  her  letter,  fastened  it  on  Leone's  pin  cushion. 

"  Clemente  has  the  toothache,  Signora;  it  is  very  bad,  yet  he 
will  go.  But  he  will  have  to  take  the  cart,  as  there  is  only  one 
horse  in  the  stable.  He  also  makes  bold  to  advise  the  Signora 
to  wait  until  her  husband  can  accompany  her,  though  of  course 
she  will  do  as  she  pleases  — " 

"  Of  course  she  will,"  said  Margaret,  laughing. 

Just  as  she  had  left  Rome  on  the  spur  of  the  moment  so  she 
was  leaving  Rocca  Serrata,  without  time  for  consideration. 

"  Tell  Clemente,"  she  continued,  "  not  to  worry  —  it  is  per- 
fectly proper  for  me  to  go.  Oh,  how  little  I  thought  when  I 


The-  Murderer  309 

got  out  of  bed  this  morning  that  I  would  not  sleep  here  to-night ! 
Lisa,  this  has  been  the  most  eventful  day  of  my  life." 

Seated  beside  Clemente,  with  his  face  bound  up  and  his  old 
rain-stained  hat  pulled  over  his  eyes  in  the  muddy,  rickety  cart, 
her  trunk  behind  her  and  wearing  an  out-of-date  faded  serge, 
Margaret  might  have  been  mistaken  for  a  pretty  better-class 
emigrant  about  to  take  passage  for  the  new  world ;  but  no  one 
in  the  kingdom  of  Italy  felt  as  rich  as  she  and  no  one  knew  of 
the  fortune  in  jewels  underneath  her  cheap  blouse,  nor  of  the 
draft  on  fche  bank  in  Perugia,  which,  though  she  could  not  make 
use  of  it,  made  her  feel  wealthy  and  secure. 

The  horse  jogged  down  the  steep  road  and  she  turned  round 
to  take  a  last  look  at  the  old  fortress  that  had  been  her  home 
for  three  years,  and  it  seemed  to  frown  upon  her  ominously  for 
leaving  its  sheltering  walls. 

******** 

Up  the  slope  from  the  valley  rode  the  "  bel  giovanotto"  as 
the  peasants  called  young  Belmonte.  He  had  been  away  a  day 
longer  than  he  had  expected,  for  the  river,  swollen  from  ra- 
vines that  brought  down  torrents  of  melted  snow,  had  swept 
away  the  ancient  camel-backed  bridge  and  he  had  been  obliged 
to  go  miles  out  of  the  main  road  in  order  to  cross. 

The  commissions  of  Fauvel  had  been  attended  to  promptly 
and  well,  and  self-satisfaction  is  good;  the  letter  was  on  its 
way  to  Paris  and  now  he  was  returning,  happy  and  light 
hearted  in  the  glorious  spring  weather.  The  scent  of  fresh 
earth  was  exhilarating,  the  sun  shone  brightly  and  the  roadsides 
were  purple  and  gold  with  violets  and  dandelions,  and  here  and 
there  a  budding  narcissus  perfumed  the  breeze  that  stirred  a  tall 
poplar  into  waving  grace  as  it  rustled  its  silvery  leaves. 

There  was  a  rich  color  in  Leone's  youthful  face  and  the 
light  of  the  gladness  of  life  was  in  his  eyes,  for  springtime  to 
an  Italian  of  his  temperament  is  like  maddening  wine.  And 
now  he  came  in  view  of  Rocca  Serrata;  the  sun's  rays  at  this 
hour  were  slanting  directly  upon  it,  bringing  it  out  in  imperious 


310  A  Cry  of  Youth 

relief  from  the  gigantic  rock.  Instinctively  he  raised  his  cap  — 
it  was  the  dwelling  of  Margherita. 

Had  she  missed  him  as  much  as  he  had  missed  her?  He 
could  scarcely  wait  to  take  her  in  his  arms  again,  and  he  gave 
the  mare  Fiora  a  sharp  flick  of  the  whip  to  urge  her  on. 

He  had  allowed  Beppo  to  remain  to  visit  his  mother  in  one 
of  the  neighboring  villages,  as  he  had  something  to  do  on  the 
way  home  and  wanted  to  be  alone.  There  \vas  a  hammer  and 
chisel  in  the  saddle-bags  which  he  had  brought  purposely,  and 
he  had  dismounted  near  a  shrine  of  the  "  Pieta,"  and  had  tied 
Fiora.  He  began  his  work  by  chalking  five  letters  on  a  smooth 
rock  above  a  little  curtain  of  trailing  plants. 

It  was  a  laborious  task  to  chip  the  hard  stone  and  the  letters 
were  rough  and  uneven  when  finished,  but  yet  perfectly  legible, 
and  they  spelled  the  word  "AMOR  E." 

In  a  week  or  so,  when  the  ground  was  drier  and  the  small 
canker  roses  and  amaryllis  had  come  out,  he  would  bring  Mar- 
gherita and  show  her  the  inscription  above  the  grave  of  their 
child. 

He  was  so  near  the  castle  now  that  he  felt  sure  she  could  see 
him  from  some  window  where  she  might  be  watching;  another 
quarter  of  an  hour  and  he  was  riding  through  the  gateway  sing- 
ing out  gaily,  "  Hola!  I  have  come!  " 

Why  did  he  not  hear  her  reply,  nor  see  her  running  to  meet 
him?  He  leaped  from  the  horse  and  went  into  the  house;  but 
there  was  no  sign  of  her,  or  any  one.  He  called,  "  Margherita ! 
Margherita !  "  No  answer.  He  went  through  the  corridor, 
still  calling,  but  only  an  echo  came  back  to  him  —  "  rita."  He 
stood  still,  perplexed.  Well,  she  must  be  up  in  her  room;  but 
how  thoughtless  of  her  not  to  be  on  the  lookout  for  him,  unless 
she  were  ill.  Grand  Dio!  Could  she  be  ill? 

He  tore  up  the  stairs,  thinking  as  he  did  so  that  he  heard 
a  low,  unpleasant  laugh,  but  upon  looking  back  he  could  perceive 
no  one.  Opening  Margaret's  door,  he  found  her  room  in  dis- 
order. What  did  it  mean?  She  was  so  neat,  so  particular 


The  Murderer  311 

about  her  things,  and  now  they  were  strewn  over  chairs  and 
tables,  the  wardrobe  nearly  empty,  with  the  doors  thrown  back 
and  soapy  water  in  the  basin.  Lisa,  with  the  laxity  of  Italian 
servants,  had  put  off  arranging  the  room  after  the  Signora's 
hurried  departure,  and  everything  was  just  as  she  had  left  it. 
Bewildered  and  alarmed,  Leone  passed  into  his  own  room ;  here 
all  was  tidy  and  in  order.  He  spied  the  note  on  his  pin  cushion 
and  snatching  it  up,  he  tore  it  open. 

"  Amore,"  he  read.  What  —  what!  She  had  gone?  Mar- 
gherita  gone?  Left  Rocca  Serrata  on  Tuesday,  and  this  was 
Saturday!  She  had  been  gone  four  days!  Madre  di  Diot 
what  should  he  do ! 

His  dismay  now  turned  to  anger.  He  would  go  right  after 
her  and  bring  her  back.  How  dared  she  run  away  like  this? 
She  was  his  wife,  she  should  have  asked  his  permission,  or  at 
least  consulted  him  before  taking  such  a  sudden  step.  Had  he 
ever  put  a  straw  in  her  way  about  anything  she  wanted  to  do? 
No ;  he  had  only  lived  to  make  her  happy,  and  she  knew  it.  In 
his  anger  he  lashed  the  air  with  the  riding  whip  still  in  his 
hand. 

If  it  was  necessary  for  her  to  return  to  the  United  States  for 
a  few  weeks,  he  would  have  gone  or  sent  Clemente  with  her  as 
far  as  the  steamer,  to  see  that  she  got  off  properly  and  put  her  in 
the  care  of  the  captain  or  "  Reggio  Commissario  " ;  he  did  not 
approve  of  young  women  traveling  alone.  And  lastly  her  let- 
ter sought  to  pacify  him  by  speaking  of  her  money  and  what 
good  times  they  would  have  on  it  —  the  presents  she  would 
bring  —  it  was  an  insult ! 

What  kind  of  man  did  she  take  him  for  that  he  would  live 
on  her  money?  Some  men  lived  on  their  wives'  money,  but 
not  an  Estori !  The  Estoris  were  rich  themselves,  and  proud  — 
only  he  was  poor.  He  believed  that  if  he  could  catch  her  now 
he  would  whip  her  until  she  was  striped  like  a  zebra! 

But  after  the  anger  came  the  realizing  agony  that  she  was 
gone.  His  arms  were  empty.  Beat  her?  Oh,  no;  he  would 


312  A  Cry  of  Youth 

try  to  share  her  joy  in  her  good  fortune.  He  had  been  happy 
and  contented  in  their  poverty,  but  she  longed  for  what  money 
could  give  and  he  ought  to  be  glad  that  she  had  it.  Yes,  he 
would  have  helped  her  to  do  whatever  was  right  in  the  case 
and  she  might  have  had  enough  confidence  in  him  to  know  it. 
She  should  have  waited  for  his  return. 

"  Oh,  Margherita,  how  could  you,  how  could  you!  " 

"  '  The  body  of  the  dwarf  lies  over  by  the  ruins,'  "  he  read. 
So  he  had  been  poking  around  again,  had  he?  And  in  the  very 
place  where  he  had  been  forbidden  to  go,  and  had  gotten  him- 
self killed  just  as  Fauvel  had  predicted.  He  was  not  mistaken 
then  about  seeing  him  a  few  days  ago,  the  wretched  jettatura, 
whose  visits  invariably  brought  trouble.  Something  dreadful 
happened  whenever  this  dwarf  appeared;  he  deserved  to  die! 
And  why  should  he  have  "honorable  burial"  for  her  sake? 
What  was  this  scurvy  creature  to  Margherita,  this  low,  miser- 
able peasant?  Some  intuition  had  been  telling  him  that  Mar- 
gherita knew  more  about  the  fellow  than  she  would  say. 

"  Honorable  burial,"  indeed!  Let  the  birds  of  prey  devour 
his  dirty  carcass.  If  he  was  so  much  to  Margherita,  why  did 
she  not  stay  at  home  and  be  chief  mourner  at  his  funeral !  In 
his  anger  he  tore  the  letter  into  little  bits  and  threw  them  upon 
the  floor.  He  was  deeply  hurt,  mystified  and  enraged;  and 
went  downstairs  again  to  interview  Clemente,  ringing  the  call 
bell  furiously.  He  rang  three  times  and  receiving  no  response, 
which  irritated  him  still  further,  he  strode  over  to  the  steward's 
quarters. 

The  mediaeval  kitchen  with  its  enormous  fireplace  big  enough 
to  roast  a  whole  ox,  was  empty,  also  the  servants'  hall;  so  he 
went  on  to  where  Clemente  slept.  Here  the  sound  of  lamen- 
tations reached  him  before  he  came  to  the  door  and  he  found 
Clemente  groaning  in  bed.  The  room  was  darkened  and  the 
air  impure. 

"  Diavolo!  What  is  the  matter  with  you?  "  he  said  angrily. 
His  usually  sweet  temper  was  so  roused  that  he  felt  he  might 


The  Murderer  313 

be  dangerous  to  any  one  who  tried  him  too  far.  "  Stop  that 
noise  and  tell  me  about  the  Signora,  exactly  the  hour  she  left 
and  what  were  her  plans." 

"  I  drove  her  to  Fossato  on  Tuesday,"  Clemente  began  be- 
tween his  groans,  "  about  four  o'clock.  Lisa  and  I  advised  her 
to  wait  for  you,  Signore,  but  she  is  headstrong  —  the  Signora 
Margherita  —  she  would  not  listen ;  she  seemed  to  be  in  a  great 
state  of  excitement,  and  talked  and  laughed  and  cried  all  at 
once.  She  took  a  small  trunk  and  I  saw  her  board  the  train 
for  Perugia;  she  said  she  must  catch  a  steamer  for  New  York 
which  was  to  sail  from  Genoa  yesterday  morning  and  that  she 
would  be  back  here  by  the  end  of  June.  That  is  all  I  know, 
Signore.  Oh,  my  poor  tooth!  It  was  bad  enough  that  day, 
but  driving  home  in  the  night  air  made  it  worse  —  ough !  — 
ough!" 

Sailed  yesterday!  Then  he  could  not  go  after  her.  She  was 
absolutely  gone,  gone! 

Clemente  began  to  wail  again.  He  was  a  most  sensible  old 
man  when  well  and  very  helpful  if  others  were  ill,  but  for  the 
least  ailment  that  affected  himself  he  behaved  like  a  child. 

"  Oh,  Signore,  that  is  not  the  worst  that  has  happened.  The 
jettatura  —  the  evil  one  —  the  dwarf  — " 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  Leone  interrupted;  "  where  is  Lisa?  " 

"  Gone  down  to  the  monastery  for  a  couple  of  blessed  can- 
dles; we  must  burn  them  to  take  the  curse  off  tKis  house.  I 
am  not  strong  enough  to  bury  him  alone  and  Beppo  and  Illario 
both  away,  and  there  he  lies  rotting  in  the  sun,  still  working 
evil  spells  even  in  death  —  ough!  "  and  Clemente  gave  a  cry; 
"  there  it  goes  again,  my  tooth,  my  tooth !  It  has  me  crazed  — 
pazzo  with  the  pain.  Three  nights  have  I  walked  the  floor 
and  not  a  wink  of  sleep  have  I  had  between  it  and  the  corpse, 
thinking  how  I  could  bury  it  before  the  story  gets  round.  Oh, 
Signore,  how  could  you  do  it?  " 

"What  story?  Do  what,  you  raving  dotard  ?  I  was  obliged 
to  go  away.  I  wish  to  God  I  had  not.  Don't  lie  there  howl- 


314  A  Cry  of  Youth 

ing.  If  your  tooth  is  so  bad,  get  up  and  go  to  Fossato  and  see 
a  dentist."  With  that  he  turned  and  left  the  room;  was  he 
to  be  annoyed  by  so  sordid  a  thing  as  a  servant's  toothache  when 
he  was  in  such  distress  of  mind  ? 

He  walked  back  again  and  went  into  the  cedar  room.  Fleur- 
ette  was  scratching  noisily  upon  the  floor  of  her  cage.  He 
saw  that  her  seed  cup  was  empty.  Mechanically  he  removed 
it,  went  to  the  cabinet,  filled  it  with  sunflower  seeds  and  snapped 
it  back  in  place.  Turning,  he  saw  Carlotta  standing  in  the 
doorway.  She  held  a  jet  black  kitten  up  against  her  pink 
cheek  and  greeted  him  with  a  sarcastic  smile. 

"  What  are  you  doing  here?  "  he  asked  rudely.  "  I  told  you 
never  to  come  back." 

"  Oh,  did  you  ?  Well,  as  this  happens  to  be  the  house  of 
Signor  Fauvel  and  he  has  never  forbidden  my  coming,  I  don't 
know  that  what  you  say  has  any  particular  weight.  I  came  to 
get  my  kitten;  there  was  this  black  one  among  the  last  litter 
of  the  Signora's  cat  and  she  gave  it  to  me  and  I  have  kept  it  here 
until  it  was  old  enough  to  be  taken  from  its  mother.  I  came 
for  it  on  Wednesday  morning  and  found  you  were  off  in  the 
mountains  and  the  Signora  gone  to  Parish' 

"To  Paris?" 

"  Yes,  to  Paris,"  she  repeated. 

"  To  the  United  States,  you  mean.  She  has  inherited  prop- 
erty there,  and  it  was  necessary  for  her  to  go." 

He  would  not  let  Carlotta  think  that  he  criticized  in  any 
way  the  departure  of  Margherita.  "  She  will  be  back  soon," 
he  added  carelessly. 

"  That's  what  she  says,"  Carlotta  answered  significantly, 
"  but  I  know  that  she  has  gone  to  Paris  to  join  Fauvel." 

"  She  has  not,"  Leone  declared  indignantly,  his  eyes  flashing. 
"  She  has  gone  to  her  own  people  in  New  York." 

"  Wait,  Signore  Leone.  Does  it  not  look  suspicious  that 
Fauvel  should  have  sent  you  away  and  that  this  letter  came  for 
her  which  takes  her  away  during  your  absence  ?  I  know  every- 


The  Murderer  315 

! 

thing  that  has  happened,  from  Lisa  and  Clemente.  I've  been 
stopping  here  three  days,  waiting  for  you  to  return  and  to  warn 
you." 

"  You  might  have  saved  yourself  the  trouble.  I  will  not  hear 
a  word  against  either  the  Signora  or  Fauvel." 

"  Think!  It  takes  a  big  sum  of  money  to  go  from  Italy  to 
New  York  and  travel  the  way  in  which  she  would  want  to  go, 
is  not  that  true  ?  Where  did  she  get  it  ?  Not  from  you  — 
you  have  only  just  learned  that  she  is  gone!  " 

"  It's  none  of  your  business  where  she  got  it !  "  Leone  said 
darkly. 

"  Perhaps  not,"  she  retorted,  "  but  it  is  yours." 

"  Her  family  sent  her  the  money,  of  course,"  he  said. 

Carlotta  threw  back  her  head  and  laughed,  a  hateful,  mock- 
ing laugh,  that  made  his  blood  surge. 

"  You  simpleton !  "  she  said.  "  She  has  gone  to  Paris  to  be 
with  Fauvel.  He  loves  her,  see  here !  " 

She  tossed  upon  the  table  of  piece  of  paper;  it  was  a  pencil 
sketch  of  Margaret  with  her  baby  in  her  arms,  and  written 
underneath,  "  A  Second  Love." 

Leone  knew  that  Fauvel  made  no  secret  of  his  affection  and 
admiration  for  Margaret,  but  it  had  always  appeared  to  be 
rather  a  fatherly  tenderness;  he  also  knew  that  Fauvel  had  had 
a  serious  love  affair  in  his  youth,  and  that  he  said  openly  he 
had  never  really  loved  since.  But  now  —  here  it  was  in  his 
own  writing,  "  A  Second  Love." 

In  reality  those  three  words  under  the  little  offhand  sketch 
referred  simply  to  Margaret  herself  and  were  a  most  delicate 
compliment  to  Leone,  as  it  was  his  child  that  typified  the  "  Sec- 
ond Love." 

But  he  was  too  blinded  just  then  to  analyze,  and  took  in  only 
what  he  saw.  Carlotta  watched  the  hot  color  mount  to  his  face 
and  then  rush  away  again,  leaving  him  almost  pale,  and  knew 
she  had  gained  a  point. 

"  Fauvel  loves  the  Signora,  I  tell  you,"  she  continued,  "  and 


316  A  Cry  of  Youth 

the  Signora  longs  for  gay  times  and  fine  clothes.  He  can  give 
them  to  her.  Fauvel  is  called  '  rich  and  stingy,'  because  he  lives 
quietly  without  any  show,  but  he  is  not  stingy  to  women;  I 
know  from  gossip  in  Perugia.  His  women  have  everything 
they  want  while  the  affair  lasts;  they  usually  last  about  two 
months.  The  signora  said  she  would  come  back  in  June,  did 
she  not  ?  So  will  he.  Two  months  of  pleasure  and  gaiety  and 
then  the  good  little  wife  will  return  to  her  adoring  husband, 
whose  only  fortune  is  his  good  looks,  and  the  story  of  her  inher- 
ited wealth  will  account  for  what  dresses  and  jewelry  she  may 
bring  home  with  her.  Ha,  ha,  it  is  as  clear  as  daylight,  and 
any  one  but  a  fool  would  see." 

"  It  is  a  lie!  "  he  cried,  crushing  the  sketch  and  flinging  it 
from  him ;  "  a  lie !  Fauvel  is  not  that  kind,  though  he  is  a 
man  and  can  stand  it;  but  the  Signora  I  will  not  hear  de- 
famed." 

He  grasped  the  whip  he  had  laid  down  while  attending  to  the 
macaw.  The  wild  blood  of  his  Sicilian  grandfather,  latent  in 
his  veins,  rose  in  terrific  force  with  the  desire  to  slash  and  rend 
ruthlessly.  "  Carlotta  Santoni,"  he  cried,  brandishing  the  whip 
above  his  head,  "  I  would  like  to  kill  you." 

"  You  had  better  not  touch  me,"  she  said  insolently,  but  re- 
treating as  she  spoke,  for  his  looks  and  attitude  were  alarming. 
"  I  should  think  you  had  stains  enough  on  your  hands  already." 

"What  is  the  matter  with  my  hands?"  and  he  glanced  at 
them.  "  What  do  you  mean?  You  speak  in  riddles." 

"  Do  I  ?  I  think  not.  I  told  you  I  came  up  for  my  kitten 
on  Wednesday  morning,  but  it  scampered  away  from  me,  ran  a 
long  way  round  the  house  and  over  by  the  ruins.  I  followed  it 
and  saw  it  jump  behind  a  pile  of  stones.  I  went  after  it,  look- 
ing for  it  among  the  brushwood  and  brambles  by  the  broken 
wall  near  the  old  well.  As  I  parted  the  branches  I  screamed  — 
I  screamed  again  and  again.  Lying  there  hidden,  with  stones 
and  boughs  broken  off  on  purpose  to  cover  him,  was  the  jetta- 
tura,  dead,  with  a  hole  in  his  head  and  the  blood  all  clotted 


The  Murderer  317 

upon  it  —  I  screamed  —  I  shrieked !  Clemente  and  Lisa  heard 
me  and  came  running  over;  they  saw,  too,  and  Clemente  said  he 
must  have  been  dead  for  twenty-four  hours  —  and  you  killed 
him  —  you,  you,  you !  " 

"  Stop !  "  he  cried,  "  that  is  another  lie  —  a  damnable  lie.  I 
did  not  even  know  he  was  dead  until  I  came  home,  less  than  an 
hour  ago.  How  dare  you  say  this,  how  dare  you !  " 

"  Because  I  heard  you  threaten  to  kill  him ;  the  whole  house 
has  heard  you  over  and  over  again." 

Carlotta  held  the  black  kitten  in  front  of  her  face  as  she 
spoke,  for  the  whip  had  an  unpleasant  look. 

"  Get  out  of  here,"  he  cried,  "  quick,  before  I  hurt  you. 
Only  your  sex  keeps  me  from  knocking  you  down.  Do  you 
hear  me  —  go!  —  and  never  show  your  face  here  again,  she- 
devil  —  traducer  —  liar  —  begone,  before  I  strike  you !  " 

Seeing  him  prepared  to  carry  out  his  threat  as  he  moved  to- 
ward her,  Carlotta  fled  screaming.  After  she  had  gone,  Leone 
paced  up  and  down  the  length  of  the  long  room ;  up  and  down, 
his  blood  at  white  heat,  his  brain  bursting.  The  venom  in  the 
girl's  words  had  found  its  way  to  his  heart  and  was  working 
like  deadly  poison  in  his  system.  Was  there  any  truth  in  what 
she  had  hinted?  Was  it  possible  that  Fauvel  and  Margaret 
cared  for  one  another  in  secret  and  had  deceived  him?  Could 
any  two  people  be  so  false  ?  Was  the  world  utterly  vile  ? 

Fauvel  might  care  for  Margherita,  any  man  w^ould  —  but 
how  could  she  care  for  him?  Fauvel  was  more  than  twenty 
years  her  senior.  Oh,  no,  the  idea  was  too  horrible.  He  must 
not,  he  would  not  allow  a  thought  which  was  an  insult  to  them 
both  to  have  place  in  his  mind.  It  was  only  women  like  Car- 
lotta whose  own  lives  were  corrupt,  who  would  even  have  im- 
agined such  a  preposterous  thing.  He  bit  the  corner  of  his 
handkerchief,  and  yet  —  and  yet  —  the  letter  that  had  bidden 
Margaret  leave  Rocca  Serrata  had  not  come  with  the  ordinary 
mail.  Some  private  messenger  must  have  brought  it;  and  she 
made  no  mention  of  any  money  being  sent  by  her  family,  but 


318  A  Cry  of  Youth 

she  had  taken  his  money,  until  she  could  reach  Perugia.  Some 
one  was  to  meet  her  in  Perugia  to  supply  her  with  funds  for 
the  rest  of  the  journey,  and  this  story  of  going  to  the  United 
States  might  be  concocted  to  throw  him  off  the  track. 

Then  the  sketch,  "  A  Second  Love."  What  did  it  all  mean? 
Grand  Dio!  The  thought  of  Margherita  in  the  arms  of  Fau- 
vel  was  more  than  he  could  bear.  Fauvel  was  considered  hand- 
some, and  he  remembered  how  he  had  noticed  the  artist's  clean, 
blond  comeliness  when  he  had  watched  him  put  on  evening  dress 
in  Rome,  and  Margherita  made  no  secret  of  her  admiration  for 
Fauvel's  learning  and  ability.  It  was  the  first  time  in  Leone's 
life  that  he  had  ever  experienced  jealousy,  and  its  corroding  acid 
ate  into  his  very  vitals  like  physical  pain.  If  it  were  true  that 
Fauvel  had  enticed  Margherita  from  him,  he  would  kick  him 
to  death!  And  Margherita  —  what  fit  punishment  could  he 
devise  for  her?  And  still  up  and  down  he  walked  like  a  caged 
and  suffering  animal. 

Once  Lisa  came  in  and  set  a  tray  of  luncheon  down  upon  the 
table  without  speaking  a  word,  gave  a  perfunctory  sort  of  curtsy 
and  left  the  room  in  haste,  with  the  air  of  one  who  feared 
contamination.  Very  remarkable  behavior.  Could  not  a 
trusted  servant  give  him  even  a  smile  of  greeting? 

He  did  not  touch  the  food  she  brought  and  presently  he  heard 
the  rattle  of  loose  wheels  and  saw  that  Clemente  was  up  and 
seated  in  the  ramshackle  vehicle,  probably  going  to  take  his 
advice  and  see  the  dentist  at  Fossato.  But  these  matters  were 
too  trivial  to  divert  his  mind  from  his  woe  except  for  the  mo- 
ment. 

What  should  he  do?  That  was  the  question.  Go  to  Paris 
and  surprise  them  ?  But  if  they  should  not  be  together  what  a 
fool  he  would  appear,  and  Fauvel  had  a  way  of  making  him 
feel  very  small  at  times  when  he  did  rash  or  childish  things. 
Should  he  go  to  Perugia  and  cable  to  New  York,  to  the  sister 
of  Margherita  and  ask  if  it  were  true  about  the  wonderful  in- 
heritance? But  the  long  message  he  would  be  obliged  to  send 


The  Murderer  319 

would  cost  tremendously  and  make  Margherita  very  angry,  for 
Signor  Belmonte  was  supposed  by  her  family  to  be  the  husband 
of  the  lady  to  whom  Margherita  was  companion,  and  they  must 
never  know  anything  about  him ;  besides,  this  might  provoke  her 
so  that  she  would  never  come  back.  Oh,  why  had  he  not  in- 
sisted upon  a  civil  marriage  all  this  time?  Then  he  would  have 
legal  rights  on  his  side ;  now  she  had  everything  on  hers. 

Well,  this  was  Friday;  if  she  really  had  gone  to  Genoa  and 
written  him  from  the  steamer,  her  letter  ought  to  reach  him 
to-morrow.  The  only  thing  to  do  was  to  wait. 

He  remembered  that  the  mare  Fiora  had  been  standing  in  the 
courtyard  all  this  time,  and  that  there  was  no  one  to  attend  to 
her  but  himself.  He  picked  up  his  cap,  went  out  and  led  her 
round  to  the  stable,  where  he  watered  and  unsaddled  her,  and 
put  her  in  the  stall,  then  strolled  dejectedly  around  the  grounds 
until  he  reached  the  terrace,  where  he  began  to  walk  again,  up 
and  down,  trying  to  picture  what  Margherita  was  doing  if  she 
were  actually  at  sea. 

It  would  be  scarcely  less  comforting  to  think  of  her  in  New 
York  than  in  Paris,  for  there  lived  that  rich  man  to  whom  she 
had  been  engaged.  He  knew  all  about  Wallace  Grant  and  his 
fortune,  for  Margherita  often  translated  her  family  letters  to 
him ;  he  believed  they  would  do  their  utmost  to  make  her  renew 
her  engagement,  and  perhaps  she  would  listen  to  them  this 
time. 

At  last  he  became  so  exhausted  from  his  walk  that  he  sank 
down  upon  a  step.  He  must  have  been  walking  for  hours,  he 
believed,  as  the  sun  was  now  low  in  the  heavens  and  shining  full 
in  his  face.  He  felt  lonely  beyond  words.  If  he  only  had  his 
son!  This  time  last  spring  the  bambino  was  here  playing  be- 
side him,  and  just  as  the  first  torturing  wound  caused  by  the 
child's  cruel  death  was  beginning  to  heal  it  now  reopened  and 
his  longing  and  grief  for  the  little  one  added  to  his  misery. 

In  a  tree  opposite  a  bird  was  chirping  to  its  mate,  and  two 
squirrels  ran  out  gamboling  together  over  the  new  grass  in  the 


320  A  Cry  of  Youth 

innocent  enjoyment  of  their  lives.  He  watched  them.  Every- 
thing was  happy  but  himself,  everything  had  its  mate,  and  his 
mate  was  gone! 

Two  months! 

How  happy  and  how  miserable,  both,  he  had  been  since  first 
meeting  Margherita!  Before  he  had  known  her  he  had  been 
always  happy  and  contented  with  his  lot  and  his  thoughts  re- 
verted to  his  boyhood  and  early  youth,  spent  in  the  old  convent 
on  the  Palatine.  Was  he  "  Fra  Felice  "  ?  What  had  become 
of  his  associates,  he  wondered,  who  had  believed  him  dead  for 
more  than  three  years?  About  this  hour  they  would  be  as- 
sembling in  the  chapel  for  vespers ;  did  they  ever  speak  of  him  ? 
And  his  cousin  Daniele,  Prince  Estori,  whom  he  had  deceived 
for  the  sake  of  Margherita!  And  his  mind  wandered  back  to 
the  old  days  in  Rome  before  she  came  into  his  life.  A  shadow 
suddenly  fell  between  him  and  the  sun,  and  looking  up  he  saw 
two  soldiers  with  white  cross-belts  and  gleaming  accoutrements. 
Carabinieri!  What  were  they  doing  here  ?  He  had  not  heard 
them  approach;  they  must  have  come  round  by  the  ramparts 
over  the  soft  ground.  One  of  them  spoke: 

"  Is  this  the  Signor  Belmonte?  " 

"  It  is,"  Leone  said,  rising;  he  had  a  liking  fo.  men  in  mili- 
tary service,  and  was  glad  of  a  break  in  his  solitude;  there  was 
evidently  some  excitement  on  hand.  "  What  can  I  do  for 
you  ?  "  he  added. 

"  There  is  an  order  out,  Signore,  for  your  arrest,"  said  one. 

"  For  my  arrest  —  mine?  " 

"  Yes." 

"On  what  charge?" 

"  On  the  charge  of  murder.  The  murder  of  one  Ferruccio, 
a  dwarf." 

"What!"  he  cried.  "What—"  Then  more  calmly: 
"  This  is  absurd." 

"  I  fear,"  said  the  first,  "  that  you  may  not  find  it  quite  so 
absurd  as  you  think." 


The  Murderer  321 

"Who  accuses  me?" 

"  The  daughter  of  Taddeo  Santoni,  the  postmaster  and  inn- 
keeper in  the  village  of  Rocca  Serrata  below." 

"Ha!"  he  understood;  this  was  Carlotta's  revenge.  The 
Lieutenant  of  the  small  detachment  of  carbineers  stationed  tem- 
porarily in  the  village  was  an  admirer  of  Carlotta's.  He  saw 
it  all.  He  threw  back  his  head  and  laughed  a  loud,  mirthless 
laugh.  "  My  good  fellows,  a  mistake  has  been  made.  The 
ruined  wall  fell  and  killed  the  dwarf,  as  it  would  have  killed 
you  or  me  had  we  been  hammering  at  it  or  pulling  out  the 
stones.  This  is  what  happened  to  the  dwarf,  a  low  vagrant 
who  had  been  forbidden  to  come  upon  the  premises  and  espe- 
cially warned  of  the  danger  in  which  he  placed  himself.  I  have 
been  absent  four  days,  and  knew  nothing  of  this  until  my 
return." 

"  The  examination  of  the  body  shows  he  has  been  dead  four 
days  and  was  carefully  concealed.  The  dead,  Signore,  cannot 
do  that  for  themselves." 

"  I  tell  you,  man,  this  accusation  has  been  made  out  of  spite," 
Leone  replied. 

"  You  have  been  heard  by  more  than  one  person  to  threaten 
his  life." 

Leone  stood  a  few  steps  above  on  the  terrace  and  looked  down 
upon  them  scornfully.  "  This  is  all  a  mistake,"  he  said,  trying 
to  speak  carelessly,  yet  feeling  that  he  was  losing  ground ;  "  it 
is  a  lie  —  a  trumped-up  lie." 

"  There  is  no  use  wasting  words,"  said  the  other.  "  You  are 
to  come  along  with  us  now.  You  will  have  a  chance  to  defend 
yourself  at  your  trial." 

What  was  this  ?     His  trial  —  he  on  trial  for  murder ! 

He  was  about  to  call  for  Clemente,  forgetting  that  he  had 
driven  away,  to  come  and  uphold  him  in  assuring  the  carbineers 
that  this  was  a  grave  mistake ;  then  he  recalled  the  old  steward's 
words,  which  at  the  time  he  had  misunderstood :  "  Oh,  Signore, 
how  could  you  do  it  ?  " 


322  A  Cry  of  Youth 

Clemente  believed  him  guilty ! 

He  had  one  more  chance. 

"  Let  me  see  your  warrant,"  he  said. 

"  Ecco,  Signore,"  and  the  man  brought  out  a  paper  officially 
signed,  "  here  is  the  order  to  conduct  you  at  once  to  the  jail  at 
Fossato,  so  you  had  better  yield  before  we  are  obliged  to  use 
force." 

Leone  retreated  a  step.  It  flashed  through  his  mind  that  this 
was  part  of  a  plot.  Carlotta  was  an  accomplice  of  Fauvel. 
The  dwarf  had  been  killed,  his  body  hidden  and  he  accused  of 
the  crime.  He  was  to  be  sent  to  jail  to  be  gotten  rid  of.  And 
from  there  —  Madre  di  Diof  The  penitentiary  at  Elba  —  the 
gallera!  For  him  —  an  Estori,  never! 

Quick  as  lightning  he  lunged  forward,  having  the  advantage 
from  his  position  on  higher  ground  and  struck  one  of  the  men 
a  sudden  terrific  blow  that  felled  him;  and  as  the  other  was 
about  to  seize  his  arm  he  slashed  him  across  the  face  with  his 
whip,  blinding  him  so  that  he  staggered  with  pain. 

In  that  one  desperate  second  he  tore  into  the  house,  the  next 
moment  the  carbineers  were  following  hot  upon  him,  but  he 
had  that  one  moment,  and  he  knew  the  winding  of  the  corridors 
and  they  had  nothing  to  guide  them  but  his  ringing  footsteps. 
Once  they  almost  came  up  to  him  as  he  ran  out  of  the  house 
again,  and  one  of  the  men  levelled  his  rifle  and  fired,  but  he  had 
disappeared  behind  an  angle  of  the  building,  and  tearing  after 
him  they  saw  him  darting  round  a  shed.  The  man  fired  an- 
other shot  which  hit  him,  for  he  gave  a  short  cry  and  threw  up 
his  arm,  half  stopping  for  an  instant;  then  on  he  flew. 

The  chase  led  them  over  to  the  ruins  where  the  corpse  lay. 
Once  more  they  caught  sight  of  him,  but  a  huge  flying  buttress 
lost  him  to  their  view;  then  they  heard  a  terrific  splash  and 
coming  to  an  open  space  they  found  he  had  vanished. 

There  was  a  half-fallen  tower  with  a  ruinous  wall  before  it, 
in  which  there  were  yawning  holes  broken  through  and  there 
was  a  low,  crumbling  semicircle  of  ancient  stonework  opposite, 


The  Murderer  323 

all  that  remained  to  warn  the  unwary  of  the  treacherous  well. 
One  of  the  men  picked  up  a  whip  and  exchanged  glances  with 
his  companion.  Hurrying  to  the  well,  they  looked  in.  Far 
below  the  dark  water  was  still  agitated  and  on  its  surface  floated 
a  cap  with  a  bright  flamingo  feather. 


PART  III 
MISS   RANDOLPH 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

LEARNING  THE  TRUTH 

"  By  memory  carefully  laid  upon  shelves, 
Identified  only  by  God  and  ourselves." 

In  a  paper  published  weekly  in  New  York  that  dealt  chiefly 
with  the  doings  and  private  affairs  of  the  smart  set  appeared 
the  following  extract: 

Though  it  is  four  years  since  Miss  Randolph  came  into  a  splendid 
fortune  society  has  seen  nothing  of  her.  For  a  long  time  she  shut 
herself  up  as  if  in  bereavement  and  apparently  found  no  pleasure  in 
wealth  and  gaiety.  She  has  devoted  her  life  to  the  care  of  her 
invalid  mother  whose  death  occurred  last  Monday. 

Miss  Randolph  is  renowned  for  her  generosity,  her  name  is  always 
seen  among  the  public  charities,  and  we  hear  that  many  of  her 
personal  friends  who  are  not  so  fortunate  as  she  is  are  given  means 
to  gratify  longings  which  they  cannot  afford  and  no  one  knows 
unless  they  tell  it.  She  has  endowed  a  bed  in  the  Babies'  Hospital, 
and  maintains  a  home  in  Westchester  for  aged  Italian  men,  called 
Casa  Ferruccio,  and  she  is  actively  interested  in  most  of  the  Italian 
Missions.  All  are  attracted  by  her  sweet  unaffected  manner  and 
we  wonder  how  it  is  that  she  has  remained  "  fancy  free,"  for  no 
suitor  seems  to  be  successful.  Some  say  that  she  has  left  her  heart 
in  sunny  Italy  where  she  lived  for  several  years,  and  others,  that 
a  Californian,  well  known  in  Wall  Street  and  Club  circles,  intends 
to  win  her  in  the  end. 

The  sympathy  of  her  friends  is  extended  to  her  in  her  loss. 

The  big  handsome  house  on  upper  Fifth  Avenue  had  its  shades 
lowered,  for  the  mother  of  the  heiress  had  just  been  laid  to 
rest  and  only  a  few  relatives  and  intimate  friends  were  within. 

They  had  returned  from  the  cemetery  and  were  upstairs  in 
the  sitting  room,  which  was  furnished  in  "  early  English  "  and 
had  a  large  photogravure  view  of  the  Colosseum,  and  the  Arch 
of  Titus  over  the  mantelpiece. 

Margaret  had  drawn  aside  from  the  others  and  was  crying 
quietly  by  herself.  She  was  pale  and  tired. 

327 


328  A  Cry  of  Youth 

"Don't,  Peggy  dear,"  her  sister,  Mrs.  Dacre,  said  kindly; 
"  you  must  think  of  yourself  now.  You  should  have  some  one 
come  and  live  with  you." 

"  Margaret  needs  a  complete  change,"  spoke  up  a  man  who 
was  standing  by  the  fireplace,  "  she  is  worn  out."  It  was  the 
faithful  Wallace  Grant  who  was  councillor  and  director  in 
the  management  of  her  great  wealth,  who,  though  jilted  by 
her  when  she  was  in  her  teens,  had  never  ceased  to  care  for 
her. 

"  Wallace  is  right,"  Mrs.  Dacre  said ;  "  why  don't  you  join 
the  Le  Roys  and  run  down  with  them  to  White  Sulphur 
Springs?  " 

"  I  am  going  to  Italy,  Jo ;"  Margaret  answered  slowly  but 
firmly.  "  I  have  always  wished  to  go  back,  but  could  not  leave 
mother  while  she  needed  me;  now  I  am  free.  I  would  like  to 
spend  Easter  in  Rome,"  and  she  gave  a  sad  little  sigh ;  "  my 
housekeeper  will  take  charge  of  everything  while  I  am  gone," 
she  continued,  "  which  will  not  be  for  long." 

"  I've  always  believed,"  Josephine  remarked  to  her  husband 
later,  as  he  put  her  in  their  waiting  limousine,  "  that  Margaret 
had  some  sentimental  love  affair  in  Italy." 

"  I've  sometimes  thought  so  myself,"  was  his  reply. 

Three  weeks  afterward  a  young  American  woman,  dressed  in 
costly  mourning,  stepped  into  a  cab  at  the  station  in  Rome. 
Glancing  from  the  window,  she  saw  that  a  few  more  hideous 
modern  buildings  had  loomed  up,  otherwise  the  Eternal  City  ap- 
peared the  same  as  when  she  had  left  it  eight  years  ago,  a  poor, 
homeless  girl,  upon  just  such  a  spring  day  as  this. 

She  was  driven  first  to  a  banking  house  on  the  Piazza  di 
Spagna  and  from  there  to  the  Palace  Hotel,  where  she  was  told 
that  the  rooms  she  had  wired  for  were  ready  and  that  "  a 
friend  "  was  upstairs  waiting  for  her.  As  the  elevator  stopped 
at  the  third  floor  a  door  was  opened  and  an  elderly  Italian 
woman  received  the  traveller  in  her  arms. 


Learning'  the  Truth  329 

"  Cara  mia,  Signora!  "  the  woman  exclaimed.  "  Do  I  really 
see  you  once  more  ?  " 

"  Darling  Giacinta,"  Margaret  answered,  kissing  her  again, 
"  I  am  back  at  last." 

Giacinta  removed  her  wraps  while  the  porters  deposited  lug- 
gage and  stood  waiting  for  their  tips. 

"  I  have  ordered  tea  for  you,  Signora,"  she  said,  "  remember- 
ing how  you  enjoyed  it  in  the  old  days." 

"  Ah,  the  old  days,"  Margaret  repeated,  sighing.  "  Am  I 
the  same  person?  I  sometimes  think  not." 

"  You  are  a  rich  and  great  lady  now,"  Giacinta  returned, 
looking  with  admiration  at  the  beautifully  fitting  gown  that  set 
off  the  girlish  figure  to  perfection.  "  I  wonder,  Signora,  that 
you  travel  without  servants?  " 

"  I  left  my  maid  in  New  York  on  purpose,  because  I  wished 
to  be  alone  —  alone  with  you.  Besides,  we  do  not  have  great 
ladies  in  America,  as  you  understand  it  here.  I  am  simply  Miss 
Randolph,  so  you  must  not  call  me  '  Signora '  any  more.  And 
as  for  riches,  they  do  not  bring  happiness.  I  cannot  spend  my 
income,  and  yet  I  never  expect  to  be  happy  again,"  and  Mar- 
garet threw  herself  upon  the  sofa  and  gave  a  long,  deep  sigh. 
"  Sit  down,  Giacinta,  and  drink  a  cup  of  tea  with  me.  I  have 
come  across  the  ocean  to  talk  to  you.  I  want  you  to  live  with 
me  always  now,  as  my  companion,  chaperon  and  friend;  my 
mother's  death  leaves  me  all  alone." 

"  Yes,  cara,  yes,  how  gladly  will  I  do  so,"  Giacinta  said 
gratefully.  "  There  is  nothing  to  keep  me  from  you  now  my 
poor  brother  is  gone.  I've  been  so  interested  in  all  you  wrote 
me  of  la  povera  mama,  and  have  said  many  prayers." 

Giacinta's  black  hair  was  powdered  with  gray  and  she  had 
grown  stout,  but  she  was  the  same  satisfactory,  refined,  motherly 
person  in  whom  the  little  lonely  American  had  found  comfort 
long  ago;  and  Margaret's  childish  face  had  become  more  wo- 
manly but  there  was  a  sensitive  expression  mixed  with  the  pretty 


330  A  Cry  of  Youth 

wistfulness  that  a  reader  of  character  might  say  denoted  the 
continual  memory  of  some  cruel  hurt. 

They  talked  on,  taking  up  the  threads  of  events  since  their 
separation,  both  wishing  to  come  to  the  subject  uppermost  in 
their  thoughts,  yet  each  dreading  to  uncover  the  wound. 

"  You  know,  Giacinta,"  Margaret  began,  "  when  I  first  went 
home  I  intended  coming  back  just  as  soon  as  my  business  mat- 
ters were  settled,  but  I  caught  the  scarlet  fever  from  my  sis- 
ter's children  and  I  was  desperately  ill  for  months.  My  fam- 
ily never  have  known  anything  of  my  married  life  here  in  Italy. 
There  were  matters  on  the  Signore's  side  to  begin  with  that 
made  it  best  for  us  to  keep  it  to  ourselves.  Then  we  were  so 
poor  and  my  sister  cannot  forgive  poverty.  Yet  in  those  days 
I  always  hoped  that  some  time  I  might  be  able  to  acknowledge 
my  husband,  but  when  he  died  —  oh,  what  was  the  use  ?  '  Let 
the  dead  past  bury  its  dead,'  "  and  she  sighed  again. 

"  I  do  not  see  how  you  kept  it  from  your  people  all  these 
years.  I  should  have  thought  letters  might  have  betrayed  it." 

"  Oh,  no ;  I  saw  to  that.  I  hired  a  private  post  office  box  in 
the  name  of  '  Belmonte,'  so  that  all  my  mail  from  Italy  might 
come  there.  But,  oh,  Giacinta,  I  was  wise  for  nothing.  No 
mail  that  could  have  betrayed  me  came  from  Italy  through  all 
those  long  weeks  when  I  was  ill  —  none,  that  is,  but  unclaimed 
letters  of  my  own.  I  had  sent  Signor  Leone  two  letters  before 
I  was  taken  ill,  and  it  was  not  until  weeks  after  that  I  was 
strong  enough  to  write  again.  Time  went  on  and  I  heard 
nothing.  I  was  mad  with  this  secret  distress,  tortured  with 
anxiety.  I  don't  know  why  I  did  not  die.  I  wrote  to  Clemente 
and  he  replied  telling  me  how  Leone  had  drowned  himself  in 
the  horrible  well,"  she  shuddered,  "  because  I  had  left  him. 
The  shock  of  that  news  made  me  desperately  ill  again,  and  I 
had  no  one  to  talk  to  — " 

"  Yes,  yes,  Signorina,  you  wrote  me,"  Giacinta  said,  in  sooth- 
ing tones,  "  but  we  were  living  in  France  at  that  time,  or  I 
would  have  gone  to  the  castle  for  you  myself.  But  Clemente 


Learning"  the  Truth  331 

should  never  have  told  you  it  was  suicide,  he  should  have  let 
you  think  it  was  an  accident." 

"  Oh,  no,  no ;  I  wanted  the  truth.  But  it  did  not  seem  pos- 
sible, for  I  had  promised  in  the  note  I  left  for  Leone  that  I 
would  return.  But  you  know  how  impulsive  he  was!  Clem- 
ente  seemed  surprised  that  I  had  not  heard  from  Fauvel  con- 
firming his  account.  But  Fauvel  has  never  sent  me  a  line,  al- 
though he  always  had  my  sister's  address  in  case  anything 
should  happen  to  me.  Then  as  I  was  convalescing,  my  mother 
had  that  stroke  of  paralysis,  and  I  could  not  leave  her  after 
that.  After  all,  what  makes  any  difference  now?" 

"  It's  most  peculiar  that  you  never  heard  from  him,  he  was 
such  a  punctilious  gentleman." 

"  I  know.  I  suppose  he  blamed  me  for  Leone's  death  and 
for  leaving  without  consulting  him  or  saying  '  good-bye.'  And 
he  was  right.  It  was  a  cruel  thing  to  do.  Oh,  how  I  have 
suffered  for  it !  " 

"  Cara  mia"  Giacinta  said  gently,  "  time  heals  all  wounds." 

"  It  does  not  heal  mine,"  Margaret  replied,  her  eyes  rilling. 
"  After  months  of  hoping,  longing  and  waiting  for  a  letter 
from  Fauvel,  I  put  aside  my  pride  and  wrote  to  Santoni,  Car- 
lotta's  father.  I  signed  the  old  name,  '  Belmonte,'  of  course, 
and  received  a  most  respectful  answer,  saying  that  the  Signore 
Artista  had  only  come  back  to  Rocca  Serrata  to  send  away  his 
pictures  and  had  said  that  he  did  not  wish  to  live  there  again 
after  the  unfortunate  ending  of  the  young  Signore,  and  he  knew 
nothing  more  about  him,  as  Lisa  and  Clemente  had  gone  away 
and  the  castle  was  closed.  So  you  see  that  was  the  end.  Fau- 
vel had  ceased  to  have  any  interest  in  me,  and  I  would  not 
place  myself  in  a  position  to  be  slighted  further.  But  how  I 
have  longed  and  longed  for  you,  dear  Giacinta,  and  now  that 
my  darling  mother  has  gone  there  was  nothing  to  keep  me,  and 
here  I  am.  The  human  heart  is  bound  to  have  an  outlet  and 
you  are  the  only  one  in  the  whole  world  that  I  may  talk  to 
freely."  And  Margaret  gave  another  long,  deep  sigh. 


332  A  Cry  of  Youth 

"  Carisslma,"  Giacinta  said,  "  think  no  more  of  the  past. 
You  are  young  and  rich  and  fair,  there  may  be  a  future  for 
you  happier  than  you  have  ever  dreamed  of  —  you've  had  a 
long  hard  journey,  would  it  not  be  well  to  lie  down?  " 

"  No,  let  me  talk.  Only  think,  the  baby  would  be  six  years 
old.  He  would  be  playing  with  balls  and  toy  airships,  wouldn't 
he?  Oh,  don't  you  remember  how  he  loved  his  little  cart? 
And  Leone  might  be  a  celebrated  poet  by  this  time.  Do  you 
know  sometimes  when  I  am  alone  at  night  I  have  horrible 
visions;  I  see  the  blood  pouring  from  the  baby's  feet — " 

"  Mia  cara,  do  not  think  of  these  things." 

"But  I  cannot  help  it.  I  see  Leone  taking  that  desperate 
plunge.  Oh,  God,  how  rash  he  was,  how  impulsive!  To  kill 
himself  without  waiting  to  hear  from  me  again.  He  must 
have  been  in  some  shocking  state  of  mind,  for  he  had  a  dread 
of  death,  and  the  well  was  so  awful!  It  was  not  like  wells 
made  by  man  where  one  could  recover  a  body  and  bury  it  —  it 
was  a  frightful  place!  I  hear  his  last  frantic  gasp  as  he  sinks 
down  —  down  into  that  bottomless  reservoir,  and  then  I  see  his 
body  in  some  subterranean  lake  where  it  floats  in  the  darkness. 
And  from  there  drawn  into  a  roaring  channel,  tossed  from  one 
chasm  to  another,  dashed  against  rocks,  whirling,  dipping,  shoot- 
ing by  with  the  rushing  stream  —  forever  in  motion,  forever 
unburied,  in  eternal  unrest." 

"  Hush,  hush,  carissima  — " 

There  was  a  knock.  Giacinta  rose  to  open  the  door.  "  A 
note,  Signora,  Signorina,"  she  corrected  herself.  "  The  boy 
will  wait  for  an  answer." 

"  A  note  for  me?  "  Margaret  said,  puzzled.  "  How  strange! 
No  one  knows  that  I  am  here  except  my  bankers."  The  note 
was  written  upon  the  hotel  paper.  She  tore  it  open  in  nervous 
haste;  it  was  in  French,  and  read: 

The  writer  begs  to  know  if  this  is  the  same  Mademoiselle  Randolph 
with  whom  he  was  once  acquainted.  He  has  been  absent  from  Rome 
for  four  years  and  seeing  the  above  name  on  the  hotel  register  has 


Learning"  the  Truth  333 

taken  this  liberty.     Should  it  be  a  mistake  he  craves  pardon ;   if  not, 
will  the  lady  be  kind  enough  to  receive  him? 

MEURICE  FAUVEL. 

"  Giacinta,"  Margaret  gasped,  "  it  is  from  Fauvel.  He  is 
under  the  same  roof  with  us.  Of  course  I'll  see  him.  Tell 
the  boy  yes,  yes,  there  is  an  answer." 

Hurrying  to  the  desk,  she  wrote: 

Monsieur  Fauvel: 

I  am  the  same.     Giacinta  is  with  me.     I  will  receive  you. 

MARGARET  RANDOLPH. 

"  Straighten  things  up  quickly,  Giacinta  dear,"  she  said,  and 
passing  into  a  bedroom  she  gave  herself  a  few  little  touches 
to  her  toilet  before  the  mirror.  The  color  left  her  face  as  a 
step  was  heard  in  the  corridor  and  Giacinta  opened  the  door 
and  in  another  instant  Fauvel  stood  before  her. 

"  Monsieur,"  Margaret  said. 

"  Mademoiselle,"  he  replied  formally,  with  his  essentially 
foreign  bow,  then  turning  to  Giacinta,  he  greeted  her  cordially. 
Giacinta  slipped  into  the  next  room  and  left  them  together. 

"  This  is  a  most  unexpected  pleasure,"  Fauvel  began,  as  he 
took  the  offered  chair.  "  I  always  believed  should  we  meet 
again  that  I  would  find  you  as  '  Madame  '  and  not  '  Mademoi- 
selle.' " 

"And  why?"  Margaret  asked,  looking  at  him.  He  had 
aged.  He  was  thin  and  pale  and  there  were  silver  threads 
mixed  with  his  blond  hair. 

"  It  was  the  natural  supposition,  Mademoiselle,  when  you 
vanished  so  suddenly  four  years  ago.  You  once  told  me  of  a 
broken  engagement  to  a  wealthy  man  in  New  York,  also  how 
some  of  your  home  letters  spoke  of  his  untiring  devotion  to  you. 
You  had  become  bored  at  the  castle.  You  could  no  longer 
stand  the  poverty  you  shared  with  the  man  you  professed  to 
love.  You  were  a  choice  flower  blooming  in  a  deserted  garden, 
you  felt  the  need  of  being  transplanted  —  pardon  me,  but  I 


334  A  Cry  of  Youth 

always  believed  you  were  coaxed  back  by  the  rich  suitor  and 
had  become  his  wife." 

Margaret  listened  with  something  like  haughtiness  mingling 
with  the  amazement  on  her  gentle  face.  How  could  he 
dare  say  such  things  to  her?  At  last  she  answered  him, 
quietly : 

"  I  wrote  you  three  times,"  she  said,  "  explaining  everything, 
and  you  never  deigned  one  word  of  reply.  My  going  home  had 
nothing  to  do  with  any  low  inconstancy.  I  was  sent  for  be- 
cause I  came  into  a  lawful  inheritance.  I  intended  to  return  at 
once,  but  I  had  a  long  and  dreadful  illness.  No  word  came 
from  Leone.  None  from  you.  It  is  strange  that  I  could  live 
through  such  torture.  Then  my  mother  had  a  stroke  — " 

"  I  never  received  any  letters  from  you,  Margherita." 

Both  now  dropped  their  frigid  manner  and  were  hanging  on 
each  other's  words. 

"  How  extraordinary!  "  she  exclaimed.  "  But  tell  me  what 
you  heard  when  you  went  back  to  Rocca  Serrata,"  she  lowered 
her  voice,  "  of  all  that  had  happened." 

Fauvel  looked  at  her  strangely,  then  said :  "  You  do  not 
know  then  that  immediately  after  you  left  Leone  was  accused 
of  the  murder  of  Ferruccio,  the  dwarf?  " 

"  Oh,  that  is  all  wrong,"  she  cried;  "  you  don't  know  what 
you  are  talking  about !  " 

"  Perhaps  you  had  better  tell  me,"  Fauvel  answered,  "  you 
seem  to  know  better  than  I." 

"  No,  no ;  go  on,  go  on." 

"  Leone  was  arrested,  but  before  the  carabinieri  could  seize 
him  he  ran  over  to  the  old  well  where  they  thought  he  jumped 
in." 

"  They  thought?  "  she  caught  at  those  strange  words. 

"  Yes ;  they  thought  he  had  drowned  himself,  for  they  heard 
a  splash  and  saw  his  cap  in  the  water.  But  when  Clemente 
sent  for  me  to  come  at  once  I  went  over  the  ground  carefully 
and  found  that  the  big  stone  that  had  hung  for  ages  over  the 


Learning-  the  Truth  335 

side  of  the  well  was  gone;  I  felt  sure  that  Leone  had  thrown 
that  in,  not  himself,  to  outwit  the  guards." 

"  What!  "  she  gasped.     "  He  was  not  drowned?  " 

"  No.  There  was  an  opening  in  the  ruins,  if  you  remember, 
just  opposite  the  well  through  which  he  could  easily  make  his 
way  to  a  secret  passage  known  only  to  him  and  myself.  I 
searched  there  alone  and  found  the  clothes  Leone  had  worn 
when  he  was  last  seen." 

"  Oh,  God ;  oh,  God !  "  she  cried  again  and  again,  and  pressed 
both  hands  against  her  heart,  for  it  was  beating  so  she  felt  it 
might  kill  her. 

"  From  that  moment,"  Fauvel  continued,  "  I  believed  he  had 
escaped.  I  learned  that  a  young  monk  with  a  scrubby  black 
beard  who  was  unknown  in  those  parts  had  passed  through  sev- 
eral villages,  and  I  was  convinced  that  Leone  had  remained 
hidden  in  the  castle  until  his  beard  grew  out,  going  at  night  to 
the  larders  for  food,  and  then  leaving  after  dark  completely 
disguised  in  his  old  habit.  I  traced  him  as  far  as  Assisi,  there 
heard  that  he  was  very  ill,  for  he  had  been  struck  by  a  rifle-ball 
while  trying  to  escape.  The  wound  had  never  been  properly 
dressed,  and  he  had  walked  for  days  when  he  should  have  kept 
quiet." 

"  Amore,  Amore !  "  Margaret  moaned ;  then  rose  to  her  feet. 
"  Tell  me  if  he  is  living  or  dead  ?  "  she  cried. 

"Living—" 

"Where?" 

"  That  I  do  not  know.  I  was  not  allowed  to  communicate 
with  him  in  any  way.  Franciscan  monks  took  charge  of  him. 
When  he  was  sufficiently  recovered  they  sent  him  to  other  monks 
of  the  same  order  in  Genoa,  but  from  there  I  could  trace  him 
no  further,  and  I  believe  he  is  hiding  in  some  monastery  to-day, 
partly  from  a  broken  heart  on  account  of  your  desertion,  and 
partly  for  fear  of  being  sent  to  prison  for  murder." 

Margaret  had  grown  as  white  as  marble  and  was  tottering. 
Fauvel  rose  also  to  catch  her  in  case  she  should  fall,  but  she 


336  A  Cry  of  Youth 

straightened  herself  and  laughed  unnaturally,  and  the  words 
came  in  short  jerks  from  her  trembling  lips.  "  There  was  — 
no  murder  —  the  wall  —  fell  —  and  killed  —  the  dwarf  —  poor 
Ferruccio !  He  died  —  by  my  side.  I  can  prove  it  —  I  — " 

At  that  moment  Giacinta  appeared  in  the  doorway.  Mar- 
garet staggered  to  her  and  threw  herself  in  her  arms.  "  He 
lives,  he  lives,  Giacinta!"  she  cried.  "Leone  lives!"  then 
fell  back  unconscious. 

Fauvel  carried  her  into  her  room  and  laid  her  upon  the 
bed.  She  soon  revived  and  was  able  to  talk  calmly.  She  told 
the  whole  story  of  Ferruccio  and  the  jewels.  Fauvel  listened 
with  the  gravest  attention,  making  her  repeat  parts  that  seemed 
to  him  almost  incredible.  When  she  had  finished,  he  remarked : 
"  Well,  I  have  always  agreed  that  '  truth  is  stranger  than  fic- 
tion.' I  had  not  the  least  suspicion  that  my  old  ruins  contained 
any  hidden  treasure." 

This  made  Margaret  start.  "  Oh,"  she  cried,  "  the  jewels 
are  yours,  Fauvel,  not  mine !  They  were  found  on  your  prop- 
erty. I  never  thought  of  that  before !  Oh  —  have  I  been  a 
thief  all  this  time !  " 

"  Never  mind  that  now,  Margherita,"  he  said,  smiling,  "  and 
I  will  forgive  the  thief,  if  there  is  one." 

Then  they  discussed  Clemente's  actions,  and  came  to  the  con- 
clusion that  he  wanted  to  punish  her  for  going  away ;  so  he  had 
made  her  desertion  the  only  cause  of  the  suicide  in  which  Fauvel 
had  allowed  all  at  Rocca  Serrata  to  believe.  Clemente  had  no 
doubt  of  the  murder,  but  why  blacken  the  young  master's  mem- 
ory to  a  heartless  woman?  So  he  evidently  reasoned,  and 
dreadful  had  been  the  consequences  of  his  suppression.  If  Mar- 
garet had  known  all  she  must  have  got  in  touch  with  Fauvel  to 
tell  him  the  truth.  Now  between  them  they  must  find  Leone 
and  establish  his  innocence.  There  was  one  person  influential 
enough  to  help  them  —  Prince  Estori. 

After  dinner  Fauvel  returned  to  find  how  Margaret  was 
and  to  say  that  he  had  phoned  the  Palazzo  Estori  and  found 


Learning  the  Truth  337, 

that  the  Prince  was  away  on  his  yacht.  Meantime  Fauvel 
would  go  in  search  with  letters  strong  enough  to  open  monastery 
doors.  As  he  rose  to  go  Margaret  noticed  that  he  walked  lame. 

"  I  was  injured  in  a  railway  accident  shortly  after  this  event," 
he  replied  to  her  inquiry.  "  My  baggage  was  demolished  and 
with  it  my  address  book  —  that  made  it  difficult  to  communi- 
cate with  you,  and  I  was  in  no  mood  to  try  very  hard  to  reach 
one  who  appeared  so  indifferent  to  all  I  thought  she  loved. 
Pardon  me,  ma  chere.  We  must  yet  fathom  the  mystery  of 
those  lost  letters.  My  lameness  —  that  is  my  little  affliction. 
We  all  need  courage." 

After  Giacinta  had  gone  to  bed  Margaret  still  sat  up  wide 
awake.  Had  the  frightful  well  of  her  visions  given  up  its  dead 
only  to  cast  him  into  some  dark  monastery  where  they  would 
never  meet  again? 

Had  two  people  ever  loved  as  devotedly  and  intensely  as 
she  and  Leone?  Even  their  small  quarrels  had  not  marred  it, 
for  the  making  up  had  been  so  sweet.  And  now  that  same 
little  shabby  "  Signora  Belmonte "  who  had  been  Queen  of 
Love  in  the  old  castle,  had  changed  into  the  rich  and  lonely 
"Miss  Randolph,"  whom  people  called  "lucky"  —  how  little 
they  knew! 

She  opened  her  trunk.  Finding  a  box,  she  brought  out  a 
dried  rose  that  had  once  been  fresh  and  red.  She  had  found  it 
in  the  Church  of  the  Gesu  where  a  young  monk  had  been 
kneeling.  Rose  of  Destiny! 

She  took  up  a  lock  of  short  hair  raven  black  and  pressed  it 
to  her  lips.  "  Amore,"  she  whispered,  "  is  this  all  I  will  ever 
have  of  you?  "  Next  there  was  a  tiny  shoe.  "  Little  slaugh- 
tered lamb !  "  she  murmured,  and  the  small  tomb  on  the  moun- 
tainside came  to  her  mind  where  she  had  made  her  baby's  bed 
for  the  last  time.  There  was  one  more  trinket,  a  ring  of  red- 
dish gold,  hammered  by  some  craftsman  two  thousand  years  ago 
into  an  unbroken  circle  —  emblem  of  unending  love. 

She  shook  the  diamond  and  ruby  rings  from  the  third  finger 


338  A  Cry  of  Youth 

of  her  left  hand  and  slipped  the  ancient  one  on  in  their  place. 
"  My  marriage  ring! "  she  breathed.  "  Amore,  do  you  re- 
member our  wedding  night?  The  moon  was  my  '  Maid  of 
Honor  '  and  the  stars  were  our  guests,  and  we  walked  toward 
the  altar  of  love  to  the  low,  sweet  chant  of  a  nightingale;  and 
after  the  consummation  of  our  union,  that  wonderful  gift  of 
God  to  man  and  woman,  sanctified  by  great  love,  we  arose  to 
the  music  of  the  lark  which  was  our  recessional.  I  was  your 
true  wife,  Leone,  and  I  will  keep  faith  with  you  always;  no 
other  man  shall  ever  take  your  place." 


CHAPTER   XXVII 
AN  ORDER  FROM  ROME 

God  make  thee  good  as  thou  art  beautiful, 
Said  Arthur,  as  he  dubbed  him  Knight. 

TENNYSON. 

In  the  island  of  Sardinia,  on  a  bare  cliff,  facing  the  sea,  re- 
mote and  desolate,  stands  a  grim  fortress-like  monastery,  be- 
longing to  the  Trappist  Fathers.  A  perpetual  silence  is  imposed 
upon  this  order. 

There  is  a  steep,  stony  path  going  down  to  the  shore,  that  is 
seldom  used,  for  the  little  chapel-shrine,  to  which  it  leads,  is 
but  a  ruin.  It  was  said  that  in  days  gone  by  miracles  had  been 
worked  at  this  shrine,  but  now  it  stands  in  solitude,  for  no  one 
visits  it.  Occasionally  an  old  hag  passes  collecting  driftwood, 
or  a  fisherman  takes  shelter  there,  and  by  day  and  night  the 
sad  sea  breaks  at  its  door. 

It  was  yet  the  small  hours  of  the  morning  and  that  heavy 
darkness  that  comes  before  dawn  enveloped  the  earth,  then  the 
first  cold  gray  of  the  matinal  twilight  succeeded  the  blackness, 
the  pale  stars  become  fainter  and  disappeared  and  objects  took 
on  weird  shapes. 

Inland  the  great  forest  of  cork  trees  stirred  as  if  awaking. 
The  gaunt  pile  of  stones  with  its  towering  cross  became  a  habi- 
tation and  a  human  figure  was  visible,  moving  upon  the  prom- 
ontory. It  was  a  monk,  and  he  began  to  descend  the  steep 
path  leading  to  the  shore. 

Below,  the  waters  of  the  Mediterranean  dashed  against  the 
rocky  point  of  land  upon  which  the  ruined  chapel  stands, 
drenching  its  broken  walls  with  spray,  while  close  by  crested 
waves  broke  into  soft  foam  upon  a  stretch  of  sandy  beach.  The 
monk  stood  there  and  gazed  far  out  across  the  sea.  It  was 
Easter  morning.  Yonder  was  the  world  he  had  left. 

339 


340  A  Cry  of  Youth 

But  he  was  dead  to  that  world  forever  and  a  crushing  grief 
was  consuming  him,  to  which  he  could  not  become  resigned. 
"  Why  was  he  not  actually  dead  ?  "  he  asked  himself,  for  this 
was  a  living  death,  an  entombed  death,  the  condemnation  to 
silence  without  distraction  in  the  confines  of  the  monastery 
grounds,  in  the  perpetual  suffering  of  solitude  upon  the  ruins 
of  a  love  and  a  faith. 

Once  he  had  taken  pride  in  cultivating  rare  red  roses,  now 
he  worked  in  the  coarse  medicinal  garden,  and  for  recreation 
he  had  only  this  walk  to  the  sea. 

The  monk  had  been  sent  here,  where  as  a  penance  for  sin  it 
was  forbidden  to  hold  speech  with  any  one.  At  his  first  coming 
the  place  had  seemed  a  grateful  asylum;  here  he  could  hide  him- 
self and  could  weep  in  peace,  not  for  his  sin  but  for  his  loss, 
for  his  dead  child  and  its  mother. 

Where  was  she,  the  girl  he  had  idolized?  Was  she  across 
the  Great  Water  in  her  own  land  ?  That  was  why  he  loved  to 
come  down  close  to  the  sea,  it  brought  him  nearer  to  her. 

What  had  become  of  her  ?  Was  she  mixing  in  the  gaieties  of 
the  world  with  his  false  friend,  who  believed  him  dead,  while 
he  was  here  in  this  desolate  place,  in  silent  suffering,  because  he 
had  loved  her  too  well?  Often  he  felt  how  preposterous  was 
that  story,  but  he  could  never  wholly  put  out  the  flame  of  jeal- 
ousy. Why  had  she  left  him  so  cruelly  ?  In  the  women  of  his 
race  such  unwifely  conduct,  for  so  it  looked  to  him,  could  mean 
but  one  thing. 

He  had  performed  every  hard  duty  of  the  imposed  penance 
to  the  very  letter  of  the  law,  and  the  superiors  were  well 
pleased  with  him,  but  he  was  merely  accepting  his  fate  as  one 
of  those  individual  lives  that  must  be  sacrificed  for  the  good 
of  the  whole. 

Under  his  calm  exterior,  in  such  excellent  control,  the  wound 
was  raw  and  bleeding. 

To-day  the  prescribed  period  of  his  penance  was  completed. 
What  would  they  do  with  him  now?  He  knew  that  his  su- 


An  Order  from  Rome  341 

periors  were  hoping  that  he  would  ask  to  become  a  member  of 
the  Trappist  Order  and  eventually  be  ordained  a  priest.  If  he 
could  but  know  the  truth  about  Margherita,  mayhap  he  could 
give  his  life  to  God  with  a  better  devotion.  But  he  could  never 
take  any  steps  to  learn  of  her;  he  was  helpless,  penniless.  His 
brethren  had  believed  in  his  innocence,  he  could  bring  no  scan- 
dal on  those  who  had  saved  him.  To  the  world  he  was  a  dead 
man. 

He  threw  out  his  arms  with  a  gesture  of  despair,  then  he 
sank  down  on  the  sand,  with  his  elbows  upon  his  knees  and  his 
chin  resting  in  his  hands.  How  exhausted  he  was,  with  the 
vigil  since  Holy  Thursday  Eve  and  weak  from  a  long  fast! 
Ah!  Margherita  might  forget  him,  but  if  there  were  life  after 
death  his  child  loved  him  still,  and  could  they  once  more  be 
united  he  would  bear  the  long  dreary  years  ahead  of  him  with 
patience  and  hope.  Did  any  other  father  ever  long  with  such 
intensity  to  have  his  infant  back  in  his  arms?  His  lonely  arms! 

A  sigh  that  was  more  of  a  groan  escaped  him,  a  mist  gathered 
in  his  eyes,  and  two  great  tears  dropped  upon  the  coarse  serge 
of  his  habit,  and  the  waves  rolled  on  in  their  monotony,  while 
a  man's  heart  was  breaking. 

Something  was  moving  near  the  ruined  chapel.  Was  it  a 
piece  of  white  sail-cloth  from  some  wreck  being  blown  gently  in 
his  direction  ?  No  —  it  was  a  living  thing  crawling  toward  him 
—  it  was  a  child !  God  —  it  was  his  child !  What  was  this 
vision,  what  did  it  mean?  Ah,  he  had  not  slept  and  had  kept 
such  a  rigid  fast  that  his  nerves  had  given  way,  and  this  was 
some  delusion  of  a  distraught  brain. 

Nearer  and  nearer  the  child  came,  dragging  itself  along,  for 
it  could  never  walk  again,  and  behind  it,  upon  the  sand  over 
which  it  had  crawled,  was  a  red  streak  —  blood !  Christ  the 
merciful,  spare  him  this!  He  closed  his  eyes  to  shut  out  the 
sickening  sight. 

He  felt  a  gentle  touch.  He  opened  his  eyes;  the  child  was 
close  behind  him,  the  little  face  pale  and  drawn  with  suffering, 


342  A  Cry  of  Youth 

looked  up  at  him  with  an  expression  that  recalled  its  mother. 

He  stooped  and  took  it  in  his  arms,  and  the  child  gave  a 
weary,  contented  sigh  as  it  nestled  against  his  heart,  while  his 
tears  flowed  like  a  woman's,  wetting  the  dark  ringlets  on  the 
child's  head  that  had  pillowed  itself  in  its  old  accustomed  place. 

Up  above  where  the  monastery  stood  the  bells  began  to  ring 
out  for  the  first  Mass  of  Easter.  He  dried  his  eyes  and  looked 
down  upon  the  swtet  features.  Some  change  had  been 
wrought.  The  little  face  now  bore  a  smile  of  such  unearthly 
beauty  that  it  dazzled  his  eyes  to  behold,  and,  oh  —  Madre  di 
Dio!  and  all  the  saints,  see,  bear  witness  —  fair  and  perfect  and 
whole,  as  the  day  it  was  born,  it  was  actually  standing  up  upon 
its  father's  knees. 

"  Amore !  "  he  cried,  as  he  folded  the  child  to  his  heart, 
"  A more  mio!  " 

Then  two  little  soft  arms  wound  themselves  around  his  neck, 
and  the  fresh  baby  lips  were  pressed  upon  his  own,  and  now  he 
closed  his  eyes  for  very  rapture.  He  believed  that  when  he 
opened  them  his  son  would  be  gone,  but  he  no  longer  wished  to 
keep  him,  for  his  baptized  little  one  had  looked  upon  the  face 
of  its  Heavenly  Father,  and  what  earthly  parent  could  keep  it 
from  that  joy? 

Gently  he  relaxed  his  hold,  parting  his  arms  until  they  were 
stretched  out  wide,  then  he  opened  his  eyes.  The  child  had 
vanished.  He  fell  upon  his  knees  making  the  sign  of  the  cross. 

'  The  Lord  gave,  and  the  Lord  taketh  away ! '  "  he  cried. 
"  '  Blessed  be  the  Name  of  the  Lord ! '  " 

When  he  looked  up  the  sun  was  rising,  and  he  saw  that  what 
he  had  taken  for  a  trail  of  blood  upon  the  sand  was  a  red  streak 
of  the  dawn. 

The  bells  were  finishing  their  call.  He  rose  and  bounded  up 
the  steep  path  like  a  boy,  for  he  had  left  his  burden  below  by 
the  sea. 

After  mass  and  refectory  he  walked  alone  to  the  cliff  to  med- 
itate a  few  moments  upon  the  supernatural  thing  that  had  hap- 


An  Order  from  Rome          343 

pened.  The  sun  was  shedding  its  golden  glory,  a  white  gull 
was  twinkling  in  the  blue  sky,  and  a  beauty  and  peace  prevailed. 

As  he  stood  there  some  strange  force  seemed  to  be  overpow- 
ring  him,  lifting  him  out  of  his  apathy  to  a  higher  and  differ- 
ent sphere.  He  no  more  thought  of  Margherita  with  sicken- 
ing longing,  nor  did  he  wish  to  die;  he  believed  there  was  some 
special  mission  in  store  for  him,  and  whatever  it  might  be  he 
was  ready  to  accept  it  cheerfully,  for  his  lost  faith  had  returned 
to  him.  Had  some  balm  distilled  from  the  baby  lips  of  his 
child  reached  his  torn  heart,  or  was  it  that  higher  power,  "  Only 
speak  the  word  and  my  soul  shall  be  healed  "  ? 

While  he  breathed  in  the  salt  air  he  felt  a  touch  upon  his 
shoulder,  and  turned  to  see  a  very  old  monk,  almost  petrified 
with  age  and  thus  unfit  for  any  active  or  responsible  duties, 
delegated  to  the  task  of  messenger  to  go  in  search  of  the  differ- 
ent members  of  the  community  when  they  were  called  for  by 
their  Superiors.  By  a  form  of  sign  language  he  gave  Fra  Felice 
to  understand  that  the  Father  Abbot  desired  to  see  him  at  once, 
then  turned  and  shambled  off  again. 

Fra  Felice  followed  immediately.  The  old  monk  led  him 
along  endless  corridors,  whitened  in  lime,  all  so  alike  that  one 
might  easily  become  lost  in  their  windings.  Stopping  before 
a  padded  leather  curtain  hanging  in  an  archway  to  keep  off 
draughts,  the  antediluvian  lifted  it  for  Fra  Felice  to  pass 
through  a  smaller  corridor,  at  the  end  of  which  he  was  con- 
ducted into  a  room  entirely  of  stone,  where  a  life-sized  crucifix, 
ghastly  realistic,  was  the  most  prominent  object.  The  rosy 
morning  light  came  in  through  the  high-barred  windows,  bright- 
ening the  cheerless  chamber.  At  a  table  sat  the  Abbot  with  a 
young  monk  who  acted  as  his  secretary.  Beneath  their  feet  was 
stretched  a  long  rug  made  of  goat  skins,  for  the  floor  was  damp 
and  upon  the  table  were  some  letters  which  the  observing  eyes 
of  Fra  Felice  noticed  bore  the  red  seal  of  the  Vatican. 

The  Abbot  dismissed  his  secretary  and  the  old  messenger,  and 
Fra  Felice  was  left  alone  with  him.  The  Abbot  went  through 


344  A  Cry  of  Youth 

the  formula  of  giving  him  permission  to  speak,  and  then  said, 
"  Fra  Felice,  do  you  understand  that  with  this  date  of  the  cal- 
endar expires  the  period  prescribed  by  the  Father  General  of 
the  Franciscans  to  be  spent  by  you  here  in  prayer  and  repent- 
ance?" 

Fra  Felice  inclined  his  head,  "  Yes,  Reverendissimo." 

The  Abbot  had  keen  blue  eyes  and  a  nose  like  an  eagle's  beak ; 
it  was  a  strong,  intelligent  face,  and  the  younger  man  felt  that 
the  older  man  was  looking  him  through  and  through. 

"  As  far  as  human  mind  can  judge,  there  is  no  fault  to  find 
with  you.  You  have  been  obedient,  prompt  and  regular  in  all 
your  duties.  That  you  have  strictly  and  conscientiously  per- 
formed your  penances  I  believe  to  be  true.  Have  you  any  pref- 
erence as  to  your  future  ?  " 

"  Most  Reverend  Father,  I  have  no  choice.  Wherever  it 
may  please  God  and  my  Superiors  to  send  me,  there  I  shall 
endeavor  to  serve  them." 

The  Abbot  took  up  one  of  the  letters  with  the  Papal  seal  and 
said,  "  Some  one  with  greater  authority  than  the  Head  of  your 
Order,  or  the  Head  of  mine,  has  decided  it  for  you.  I  merely 
asked  you  this  question  to  find  out  the  true  state  of  feelings. 
The  Holy  Father  orders  you  to  come  at  once  to  Rome." 

Fra  Felice  staggered. 

"  To  Rome !  "  Back  to  Rome  where  there  would  be  so 
much  to  remind  him  of  Margherita,  of  Fauvel ;  where  Life,  such 
as  he  knew  it  now,  had  been  a  closed  book! 

"  Yes,  to  Rome,"  repeated  the  Abbot,  "  where  His  Holiness 
will  further  instruct  you." 

Fra  Felice  was  perplexed. 

"  Is  it  permitted,  Reverendissimo,  to  ask  why  the  Holy  Father 
should  honor  me  like  this?  " 

"  There  is  a  matter  of  great  moment  on  hand,  my  son.  Two 
weeks  ago  your  relative,  Prince  Estori,  his  wife  and  child,  were 
cruising  in  their  yacht  near  Malta,  when  it  capsized  in  a  squall 
and  all  on  board  were  lost  excepting  one  of  the  crew." 


An  Order  from  Rome          345 

"  Daniele  drowned!  Oh,  my  poor  cousin!  All  lost?  Ah, 
Dio  mio  —  that  is  shocking!  " 

He  had  been  fond  and  proud  of  Daniele  Estori,  and  had 
admired  him  as  a  man  of  the  world  of  excellent  type,  and  now 
he  was  cut  down  in  his  prime,  not  only  himself  but  his  son, 
and  a  pang  went  through  him  like  a  knife.  There  would  be 
no  "one  now  to  carry  on  the  line ;  the  Estoris  would  die  out ! 

"  Yes,"  the  Abbot  said,  "  it  is  a  most  sad  event  and  with 
this  tragic  death  of  an  entire  family  ends  a  long  line  of  noble 
and  devout  men  and  women,  noted  for  their  loyalty  to  the 
Vatican,  their  generosity  to  the  Church  and  the  good  example 
of  their  lives." 

Fra  Felice  bent  his  head;  the  last  word  sounded  like  a  per- 
sonal thrust.  He  was  the  only  "  black  sheep,"  then.  This 
news  was  a  cruel  blow  to  him.  Inborn  in  every  Italian  of  the 
higher  class  is  an  intense  love  of  family  and  pride  in  its  welfare 
and  now  the  old  name  was  already  a  thing  of  the  past.  The 
priceless  heirlooms,  the  portraits,  the  jewels,  the  ancient  estates 
would  be  scattered  among  strangers,  and  there  would  be  no  one 
to  recount  proudly  the  deeds  of  their  ancestors  and  sooner  or 
later  they  would  all  be  forgotten. 

Again  the  Abbot  spoke:  "  Perhaps  you  are  aware  that  there 
is  a  large  estate  to  be  arranged.  Physicians  have  helped  to  de- 
cide that  the  Princess  died  first,  the  boy  next  and  the  Prince 
himself  last,  so  it  remains  indisputably  the  property  of  the 
Estoris." 

"  But,"  interrupted  Fra  Felice,  "  there  are  no  Estoris  left. 
I  am  the  last  of  our  race  —  I,  a  poor  monk." 

"  You  are  the  heir-at-law,  that  is  why  the  Pope  sent  for  you 
to  return  to  Rome." 

Ah,  he  understood  now!  He  was  the  next  of  kin,  and  the 
Holy  Father  wished  to  see  him  concerning  the  property,  which 
he  would  of  course  be  expected  to  make  over  formally  to  the 
Order  of  St.  Francis,  as  "  poverty  "  was  the  first  of  his  vows, 
and  on  account  of  it  and  his  noble  blood  there  might  be  some 


346  A  Cry  of  Youth 

i 

compromise  on  hand,  some  position  offered  him  at  the  Vatican, 
and  his  boyish  dream  of  a  Cardinal's  hat  came  again  to  his 
mind. 

"  Ah,  yes,"  he  said,  "  I  understand ;  I  am  wanted  in  Rome  to 
sign  necessary  papers  resigning  my  personal  claims.  When 
does  it  please  you,  my  Father,  that  I  should  leave  ?  " 

"  To-morrow ;  but,  my  son,  you  do  not  quite  understand. 
These  letters  from  the  Holy  Father  came  some  days  since,  but 
it  being  Holy  Week  mundane  matters  might  not  be  discussed. 
You  are  the  lawful  heir,  and,"  glancing  at  the  letter,  "  it  ap- 
pears that  several  years  ago  a  deathbed  statement  reached  the 
Pope  explaining  certain  injustices  done  you  in  usurping  your 
father's  property  and  placing  you  in  a  monastery  while  you 
were  too  young  to  have  any  voice  in  the  matter  yourself.  For 
this  reason  (as  well  as  the  other)  our  Holy  Father,  the  Pope, 
does  not  consider  it  wise  that  so  old  and  noble  a  family  as  that 
of  which  you  are  the  last  representative,  should  die  out ;  a  fam- 
ily whose  sword  has  always  been  drawn  for  the  defense  of  the 
Faith  and  whose  late  members  have  had  the  interests  of  Cath- 
olic Italy  so  much  at  heart,  must  live,  must  be  continued,  to 
serve  as  devotedly  and  loyally  in  the  future  as  in  the  past,  for 
the  Church  to-day  in  our  beloved  country  has  more  need  to  in- 
crease its  faithful  laity  than  to  enrich  its  cloisters.  Therefore 
His  Holiness  has  exempted  you  from  your  monastic  vows. 
You  are  not  expected  to  renounce  the  property,  but  to  hold  it 
for  the  honor  of  God  and  your  fellow  men." 

During  this  speech  Fra  Felice  had  leaned  over  the  table  with 
both  hands  pressed  upon  it  so  that  not  a  word  might  escape 
him,  forgetting  the  deferential  attitude  that  should  be  observed 
in  the  presence  of  his  Superior,  his  eyes  growing  larger  and 
larger  with  amazement. 

"I  am  to  keep  the  property?"  he  asked,  in  a  bewildered 
tone,  "I?" 

To  him  it  was  incredible.  He  could  not  comprehend  this 
thing  in  its  fullness.  He  was  a  monk;  he  had  been  set  apart 


An  Order  from  Rome          347 

from  boyhood  for  the  religious  life  and  though  he  had  lapsed 
and  fallen,  the  four  years  spent  among  the  rigid  Trappists  on 
the  lonely  Sardinian  coast  had  made  that  episode  of  the  old 
castle  in  the  Umbrian  Mountains  like  a  dream,  and  a  certain 
monkish  dread  of  contact  with  the  world  made  him  recoil  from 
entering  it  again. 

"  Yes,"  replied  the  Abbot,  as  he  looked  into  the  wondering, 
searching  face,  "  you  not  only  inherit  the  property,  but  the  title 
as  well.  You  are  to  discard  your  habit,  marry,  and  continue 
your  distinguished  line." 

Fra  Felice  stood  still,  staring  as  if  the  news  had  rendered  him 
dumb,  and  the  Abbot,  seeing  that  he  was  utterly  confounded, 
said  kindly,  "  Kneel,  my  son,  and  receive  my  blessing  for  your 
new  life." 

Obediently  he  knelt.  The  Abbot  stood,  and  as  he  blessed 
him,  looked  down  upon  the  pure  chiseled  features,  the  lowered 
eyes  with  their  sweeping  lashes  and  the  noble  brow  of  the  man 
before  him,  and  his  extraordinary  beauty  struck  him;  involun- 
tarily the  stern  ascetic  added  a  mental  prayer:  "  And  may  God 
keep  thy  soul  as  fair  as  He  has  made  thee  fair  of  face." 

Fra  Felice  rose  and  the  Abbot,  bowing,  said,  "  I  salute  you, 
Prince  Estori." 

Not  until  he  heard  himself  thus  addressed  did  he  comprehend 
the  full  import  of  what  had  happened.  The  sound  of  the  be- 
loved, familiar  title  had  a  magical  effect;  it  sent  the  sluggish 
blood  leaping  through  his  veins.  Straightening  his  shoulders, 
he  stood  erect,  and,  throwing  back  his  head  with  the  old  proud 
gesture,  he  exclaimed :  "  Viva  il  Papa!  *  Viva  Roma!!  Viva 
Estori!!!  " 

*  Long  live  the  Pope. 


CHAPTER   XXVIII 

TWO  LITTLE  SHOES 

And  as  Hope  bends  low  at  parting 

For   a   death   remembered  tone, 
We  searched  the  land  that  Beauty 

And  Love  had  made  their  own. 

And  scarce  our  mood  was  broken, 

Of  near  impending  loss, 
To  find   at  the  bend  of  the  pathway 

A   Station  of  the    Cross. 

JOHNSON. 

Rome  had  been  stirred  by  the  Estori  yacht  tragedy.  Fra 
Felice  Estori,  the  next  of  kin,  had  mysteriously  disappeared 
eight  years  before,  and  presumably  was  dead,  but  the  daily  papers 
hinted  that  the  Vatican  knew  where  to  find  him,  and  the  gos- 
sips were  watching  to  see  if  the  "  Osservatore  Romano  "  would 
confirm  this  report. 

Meanwhile  avoiding  notoriety,  the  heir  of  the  Estoris  was 
quietly  installed  in  the  ancestral  palazzo  trying  to  accustom  him- 
self to  this  tremendous  change  and  new  surroundings,  and  he 
roamed  through  the  rooms  with  their  atmosphere  of  serene 
dignity  trying  to  realize  that  the  obscure  monk,  exiled  under  a 
cloud,  had  suddenly  become  a  rich  and  influential  nobleman. 

In  the  great  salone  family  portraits  of  cardinals,  court  ladies 
and  princes  in  the  costume  of  the  "  Noble  Guard,"  stared  down 
upon  him,  making  him  feel  like  an  intruder.  A  long  line  of 
crystal  chandeliers  were  multiplied  in  mirrors  at  either  end, 
and  he  would  start  as  he  caught  sight  of  his  own  reflection  in  a 
black  suit  of  the  latest  cut,  and  it  would  substantiate  the  idea 
that  this  was  mourning  for  his  dead  kinsmen,  and  that  he  was 
in  truth  himself. 

Again  the  new  prince  would  stand  in  the  antechamber  of  his 

348 


Two  Little  Shoes  349 

home,  his,  this  lonely,  luxurious  palace,  and  his  eyes  would  rest 
with  pride  upon  the  arms  of  the  Estori  emblazoned  underneath 
a  crimson  canopy  supported  by  gilded  spears,  and  it  would  re- 
mind him  that  he  was  the  last  representative  and  so  soon  as  the 
period  of  mourning  should  expire,  he  must  marry. 

But  he  could  not  forget  his  lost  love;  she  was  constantly  in 
his  thoughts;  he  was  considering  a  trip  to  look  for  her,  but 
here  his  amour  propre  came  in.  She  had  deserted  him  in  a 
heartless,  cruel,  and  unwarranted  manner,  and  might  even  now 
be  in  company  with  his  false  friend  Fauvel,  and  though  Mar- 
gherita  was  the  only  being  upon  earth  he  longed  for,  circum- 
stances had  changed;  the  woman  he  made  his  wife  must  be 
worthy  of  the  noble  name  he  had  to  give  her. 

How  he  and  Margherita  had  looked  forward  to  the  day  when 
they  might  be  free  to  come  out  of  their  seclusion  and  be  truly 
man  and  wife  before  the  world!  Ah,  well,  that  dream  was 
over!  Some  lady  of  wealth  and  position  would  be  chosen  for 
him  by  those  who  were  taking  an  active  interest  in  his  affairs, 
and  marriage  now  would  be  cold-blooded,  diplomatic,  and  per- 
functory. 

A  footman  appeared  with  a  note  on  a  silver  salver  and  waited 
while  Prince  Estori  opened  and  read  it. 

"  Oh,"  he  exclaimed,  half  to  himself,  "  Padre  Carlo  dying 
and  asks  to  see  me!  Yes,  I  will  come,  but  —  but — "  It  was 
the  one  spot  in  Rome  he  most  wished  to  avoid ;  it  was  too  full 
of  memories,  but,  yes,  he  must  go. 

"Will  his  Excellency  have  the  car?  "  asked  the  man. 

"No,  no,"  Estori  answered;  "I  will  walk,"  and  the  man 
bringing  his  hat,  he  left  the  house. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  city  Margaret  Randolph  waited 
existing  only  for  Fauvel's  letters  which  had  not  been  encourag- 
ing, but  to-day  he  had  wired :  "  Will  be  back  to-night  with 
some  news."  Margaret  was  too  nervous  to  remain  in  the  hotel ; 
not  knowing  where  she  would  go,  she  set  out  and  by  some  im- 
pelling force  her  steps  turned  in  the  direction  of  the  Colosseum, 


350  A  Cry  of  Youth 

past  the  Arch  of  Titus,  and  up  the  old  walk  where  a  "  Via 
Crucis  "  met  her  eyes.  What  did  those  two  words,  "  some 
news,"  mean?  Fra  Felice  had  once  intended  to  become  a 
priest.  He  had  never  written  her  or  tried  in  any  way  to  hear 
from  her  since  he  had  been  back  among  the  monks.  So  even 
should  he  be  the  heir  of  the  Estoris,  was  it  not  too  late?  Up 
the  hill  she  walked,  the  Stations  of  the  Cross  leading  up  also, 
being  drawn  as  by  a  magnet  to  the  monastery  at  the  end.  And 
was  a  monastery  to  be  the  end  ?  She  sat  down  upon  a  flat  stone 
and  buried  her  face  in  her  hands. 

As  Margaret  reached  the  top  of  the  hill  a  stranger  began 
the  ascent  below.  What  memories  this  place  recalled  to  him! 
He  had  been  happy  here  until  a  young  girl  had  found  her  way 
into  this  picturesque  path,  and  he  had  learned  heights  and 
depths  of  a  love  that  had  changed  the  whole  course  of  his  life. 

Margaret  heard  steps  approaching  and  put  down  her  thick 
mourning  veil.  There  was  an  easy,  patrician  swing  to  the  man's 
long,  graceful  strides.  Everything  about  him  was  familiar  ex- 
cept his  dress. 

She  rose  suddenly.  "  Signore  — "  she  ventured.  He  stopped 
and  raised  his  hat.  His  hair  was  black  and  his  eyes  were  tawny 
brown,  his  features  classic,  his  mouth  though  beautiful,  had  a 
rather  stern  expression,  unusual  in  one  still  young. 

"  Signorina?  "  he  responded,  waiting. 

The  rich  tone  of  his  voice  was  unmistakable. 

"  Leone,"  she  whispered  questioningly,  "  Leone?  " 

"  Who  are  you?  "  he  asked. 

She  raised  her  veil  and  confronted  him. 

"  Margherita !  "  he  cried,  in  unspeakable  agitation.  "  Mar- 
gherita  mia!"  He  could  scarcely  restrain  himself  from  catch- 
ing her  in  his  arms,  but  she  had  treated  him  shamefully,  and  his 
years  of  suffering  and  self-control  now  came  to  his  aid,  and  as 
she  moved  toward  him  he  retreated. 

"  Why,  Leone,"  she  exclaimed,  in  broken  bewilderment,  "  are 
you  not  glad  I  have  come  —  come  — "  In  her  nervous  excite- 


Two  Little  Shoes  351 

ment  all  the  past  of  their  separation  had  become  but  a  dark  blur 
and  what  was  clear  was  that  her  beloved  stood  before  her. 

"  To  break  my  heart  a  second  time  ?  " 

"  No,"  she  cried;  "  to  clear  your  name." 

"  That  is  past  and  gone,  Margherita;  I  have  lived  it  down." 

She  fell  back,  crushed  and  numb. 

Could  this  distant  man  be  her  Leone,  her  darling,  her  love? 

"  What  brought  you  here  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  To  —  to  find  you,  I  believe,"  she  faltered. 

"  But  it  is  not  officially  known  that  I  am  in  Rome.  My 
dear  old  Superior,  Padre  Carlo,  is  dying  —  he  wished  to  see  me 
once  more,  and  I  have  made  all  haste  to  get  to  him.  Where 
have  you  been  all  these  years  ?  "  The  question  came  out  de- 
spite his  will. 

"  At  my  own  home  in  America." 

"  But  —  no  —  Carlotta  said  — "  He  stopped,  pale  as  death, 
and  though  his  speech  was  confused,  his  eyes  looked  sternly 
into  hers. 

"  What  did  Carlotta  say?  "  sharply. 

"  That  you  had  gone  to  Paris  with  Fauvel." 

"  Leone !  "  This  time  Margaret  drew  away  from  him  in 
horror.  "  Leone,  and  you  believed  her!  " 

"  I  wrote  asking  you  to  deny  the  charge,  but  you  never  did." 

"  I  never  received  the  letter!  Nor  had  any  word  from  you 
whatever,"  she  answered  indignantly.  "  I  meant  to  come  right 
back  to  you,  but  I  was  taken  ill  —  Clemente  wrote  you  had 
drowned  yourself.  I  wrote  you  three  letters  which  were  re- 
turned. I've  mourned  for  you  for  four  years  —  remained  un- 
married —  faithful  to  you  even  in  death  — "  her  sweet  voice 
broke  into  a  pathetic  appeal,  "  Oh,  Leone,  don't  you  love  me 
any  more?  " 

The  ground  seemed  shaking  under  his  feet  with  the  great 
wave  of  returning  confidence.  "  Love  you,  Margherita  —  love 
you  ?  "  he  said.  "  Ah,  that  is  a  poor,  weak  word !  But  —  but 
—  I  must  go  in  to  the  Padre  at  once,  he  is  dying;  I  dare  not 


352  A  Cry  of  Youth 

delay."    Then   quickly:    "Where  may   I   see  you   this  eve- 
ning?" 

"  At  the  Palace  Hotel,"  she  answered  tremulously,  with  a 
fast-beating  heart. 

"  It's  all  so  wonderful,"  Margaret  said,  as  she,  Fauvel  and 
Prince  Estori  sat  together  in  her  apartment  basking  in  each 
other's  society  with  a  pile  of  unopened  letters  before  them. 

"  Yes,"  Fauvel  was  saying,  "  Carlotta  intercepted  these  for 
reasons  of  her  own,  and  then  with  the  superstitious  inconsist- 
ency of  her  sex,  she  never  broke  the  seals.  In  my  hasty  trip  to 
Rocca  Serrata  I  stopped  at  Santoni's  —  he  is  postmaster,  if  you 
remember  —  we  all  should  have  remembered  that  fact  more 
attentively;  it  might  have  helped  us  see  through  mysteries  that 
have  been  terribly  dark  to  us  all.  I  found  Carlotta  married  and 
on  the  eve  of  leaving  for  South  America  with  her  husband. 
She  took  me  aside  and  confessed  keeping  these  letters  and  re- 
turned them  to  clear  her  conscience  for  her  new  life." 

"  Here  is  the  letter  I  wrote  you,  Margherita,  from  Assisi," 
Leone  said.  "  I  could  not  remember  your  sister's  address  and 
sent  it  to  Rocca  Serrata,  in  hopes  it  would  be  forwarded  —  I 
got  some  one  to  direct  it,  as  my  handwriting  was  known  — 

"  And  here  are  my  letters  to  you,  Fauvel,"  Margaret  said  — 
"  this  one  to  Paris,  this  one  to  Perugia,  and  they  all  followed 
you  to  Rocca  Serrata,  to  be  stolen  by  her !  " 

"  It  was  robbing  the  royal  mail,"  said  Leone  severely. 

"  This  is  the  letter,  then,"  Fauvel  remarked,  "  that  was 
written  when  you  were  first  back  among  your  friends,  the 
monks  ?  " 

"  Don't  speak  lightly  of  monks,  Meurice,"  Leone  said 
shortly.  "  Had  not  monks  sheltered,  concealed,  and  nursed 
me,  I  would  have  been  seized  as  a  felon.  I  owe  it  to  monks 
that  I  am  spared  the  public  disgrace  of  having  fallen  in  my 
monastic  life.  The  world  now  thinks  that  when  Fra  Felice 
Estori  disappeared  from  it  that  he  went  directly  to  Sardinia 


Two  Little  Shoes  353 

and  buried  himself  with  the  Trappist  Fathers,  so  my  reputa- 
tion is  unsoiled.  The  man  in  the  cloister  may  do  as  much  for 
the  cause  of  '  Humanity,'  your  great  creed,  as  the  man  in  the 
world." 

"  My  dear  friend,"  Fauvel  answered,  "  I  quite  agree  with 
you.  I  too  would  not  be  here  this  moment  had  it  not  been  for 
monks.  Humanitarianism  was  once  my  first  creed,  but  when 
I  lay  pinned  under  that  railroad  wreckage  expecting  each  sec- 
ond to  be  my  last,  it  was  in  those  awful  moments,  and  from 
monks,  that  I  learned  another.  The  bravest  men  among  the 
rescuers  were  Franciscan  monks,  risking  their  lives  to  save 
others  and  administer  the  Sacrament  to  the  doomed  ones.  I 
watched  the  holy  look  of  the  faithful.  I  asked  them  to  pray 
for  me." 

"Meurice!" 

Leone  sprang  from  his  seat  and  held  out  his  hand. 

Fauvel  also  rose. 

"  I  led  you  astray,  Estori,"  he  said,  taking  it  in  a  firm  grasp, 
"  and  Margherita,  I  took  advantage  of  your  helplessness,  and  I 
now  ask  your  joint  forgiveness." 

"Need  you  ask  it,  old  friend?"  Leone  said  warmly,  while 
Margaret  took  Fauvel's  other  hand  and  stroked  it,  saying: 

"  You've  never  been  anything  to  me  but  dear  and  kind  and 
good." 

"  Bless  you,  bless  you,  my  children,"  Fauvel  said,  smiling. 
"  Now  I  am  going  in  to  talk  to  Giacinta,  and  will  leave  Prince 
Estori  and  Mademoiselle  Randolph  to  themselves."  / 

Fauvel's  words  suddenly  put  a  barrier  between  them.  The 
old  relationship  had  gone  forever.  "  Prince  Estori "  was,  and 
was  not  Leone,  just  as  "  Miss  Randolph  "  was,  and  was  not 
Margherita.  They  had  become  conventional  with  the  formali- 
ties and  responsibilities  that  position  and  wealth  required  of 
them.  Margaret  in  a  semi-evening  costume  of  filmy  black  re- 
lieved by  a  long  string  of  shimmering  pearls,  looked  lovelier 
than  ever  in  Leone's  eyes,  and  he,  faultlessly  dressed,  had  that 


354  A  Cry  of  Youth 

well-groomed,  high-bred  air  that  all  women  admire,  and  each 
stood  just  a  little  in  awe  of  the  other. 

"  If  Fauvel  wronged  us,"  Leone  began,  "  I  wronged  poor 
Ferruccio.  If  I  had  not  been  wicked  to  him  you  need  never 
have  kept  him  a  secret  — " 

Then  to  the  woman's  heart  came  an  inspiration. 

"  I  have  one  more  secret  from  you,  Leone,"  she  said,  and 
leaving  him  for  a  moment  she  returned  with  something  in  her 
hand.  "  You  thought  everything  was  destroyed,"  she  con- 
tinued, "  but  I  kept  this,"  and  she  laid  upon  the  table  an  in- 
fant's shoe,  charred  by  flames.  "  It  belonged  to  —  your  child," 
she  said  very  softly,  then  her  words  came  lower  still,  "  to  — 
my  child." 

Leone  stared  at  it.  He  thought  there  was  only  one  such 
left  from  a  pyre  of  his  own  kindling.  Taking  from  his  pocket 
an  old  worn  wallet,  he  brought  out  the  counterpart  of  the  tiny 
shoe  and  laid  it  beside  its  mate. 

"  Our  child,  Margherita,"  he  said,  with  a  choke  in  his  voice, 
"  they  belonged  to  our  child."  Then  she  felt  herself  pressed 
to  his  heart. 

Once  more  his  arms  were  around  her,  once  more  she  heard 
him  say,  "  A  more,  Amore,  mio"  and  she  was  at  rest.  It  was 
so  sweet  and  delicious  that  it  made  all  the  sad  years  seem  as 
nothing.  They  talked  on  regardless  of  the  hour. 

"  Half-past  eleven,  my  prince,"  Fauvel  called,  coming  to  the 
door;  "  it's  time  for  us  to  be  going." 

"  Five  minutes  more,  dear  old  Meurice,"  Leone  called  back, 
"  give  me  five  minutes  more.  We  have  not  yet  said  '  Good 
night' !  "  Fauvel  turned  away  with  an  indulgent  smile. 

"  How  soon  before  there  shall  be  no  '  good  nights'  ?  "  Leone 
whispered  to  Margaret.  "  Now  that  I  have  seen  thee  again,  I 
cannot  wait  —  I  am  starved  for  love." 

Those  marvellous  tawny  eyes,  beautiful  and  seductive,  "  like 
melted  stars,"  were  looking  into  hers;  through  their  soft  light 
she  could  see  the  fire  in  their  depths,  and  her  whole  being  an- 


Two  Little  Shoes  355 

swered  to  his  as  he  drew  her  closer  and  closer.  But  she  broke 
from  his  passionate  embrace.  Circumstances  had  changed  with 
her  also ;  she  was  not  going  to  be  lightly  won. 

If  Prince  Estori  wished  to  make  her  his  wife  she  would  be 
properly  wed  in  her  own  country. 

"  You  must  come  to  my  home  first,"  she  said,  "  and  marry 
me  from  there." 

"  I  will  come  to  the  end  of  the  world  for  thee !  " 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

TESTED  AND  TRUE 

I  love   thee,   I   love   but   thee 
With   a   love  that  shall   not   die 
Till   the   sun    grows    old, 
And  the  stars  are  cold, 
And  the   leaves  of  the  Judgment 
Book  unfold. 

BAYARD  TAYLOR. 

Villa  Estori  is  situated  upon  Lake  Thrasymene.  A  flight  of 
marble  steps  lead  down  to  the  lapping  water.  Tall  shade  trees 
relieve  the  sunny  glare,  and  bushes  of  "  Fra  Felice  "  roses  grow 
close  to  the  white  stucco  walls  of  the  house.  The  Prince  and 
Princess  Estori  were  in  residence  there  and  had  with  them, 
informally,  a  few  old  friends. 

Upon  the  lake  was  a  handsome  motor-launch  with  the  Ital- 
ian flag  at  its  bow  and  the  "  Stars  and  Stripes  "  at  its  stern. 
Under  its  awning  were  seated  Prince  Estori  and  his  godmother, 
Donna  Bianca  Salviate.  Standing  beside  the  balustrade  that 
ran  along  the  little  pier  was  the  Princess  Estori,  looking  very 
fair  and  sweet  in  a  white  gown,  and  holding  a  pink-lined  para- 
sol to  shield  her  eyes  from  the  dazzling  water  while  she  con- 
versed with  a  tall  young  man,  once  her  pupil,  Raul  Tardieu. 

On  the  terrace  above,  leisurely  leaning  against  a  pedestal  that 
upheld  a  marble  nymph,  with  his  pet,  the  macaw,  upon  his  arm, 
Fauvel  was  smoking  a  cigarette,  his  companion,  Madame  Tar- 
dieu, was  smoking  also,  and  talking  over  the  old  studio  days  in 
Rome. 

Sitting  upon  an  upper  balcony,  the  beads  of  her  rosary  slip- 
ping quietly  through  her  fingers,  a  sweet-faced  elderly 
Italian  woman  kept  watchful  eyes  upon  a  lovely  sturdy  boy  of 
three  years  who  was  being  amused  by  a  young  page  on  the  grass 

356 


Tested  and  True  357 

below,  while  she  occasionally  called  down  some  direction  to  a 
nurse  who  was  wheeling  a  tiny  infant  in  its  American  baby 
carriage. 

A  butler  appeared  with  a  tea  tray,  telling  the  page  to  row  out 
to  the  Prince's  launch  and  say  that  tea  was  served;  and  the 
little  boy,  finding  himself  deserted  by  his  playfellow,  ran  over 
to  Fauvel  and  embracing  his  leg,  looked  up  at  him  with  a  pretty, 
affectionate  smile,  for  Leonino  dearly  loved  his  "  uncle." 

Fauvel  placed  the  macaw  upon  the  shoulder  of  the  marble 
nymph  and  stooping  down  lifted  the  child  in  his  arms. 

The  Princess  and  Raul  having  sauntered  up  from  the  pier, 
took  seats  under  the  pergola  near  the  tea  table  where  the  others 
joined  them. 

As  the  teacups  wrere  refilled  the  conversation  drifted  to  the 
old  mountain  haunt  of  Fauvel. 

"  Yes,  I  still  own  it,"  the  latter  replied,  in  response  to  a 
question  of  Madame  Tardieu. 

"  Meurice,  will  you  not  take  us  there  some  day  in  your  new 
touring  car  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  I  should  be  delighted,"  he  replied,  "  what  do  our  host  and 
hostess  say?  " 

The  Princess  made  no  answer,  but  looked  out  over  the  water. 

"  Margherita  hesitates,"  Donna  Bianca  remarked;  "  I  can  see 
she  does  not  want  to  leave  her  babies." 

"  Oh,  Giacinta  relieves  me  of  all  care  — "  Margaret  began ; 
then,  glancing  toward  the  Prince  and  Fauvel :  "  I  will  go 
gladly  if  Leone  and  Meurice  think  it  best." 

"I  see  no  reason  why  you  should  not  go,  ma  chere"  Fauvel 
answered,  catching  her  look  and  returning  it  with  a  reassuring 
one.  "  We  might  stop  at  the  castle  overnight.  Raul  and  I 
could  take  Leone's  car  and  go  on  the  day  before  with  a  couple 
of  the  servants  and  try  to  make  the  place  somewhat  habitable; 
if  you  ladies  can  manage  to  undress  by  candlelight,  etc.  — " 

And  so  it  happened  on  the  following  Wednesday  a  squalid, 
sleepy  hamlet  crouched  in  a  hollow  below  a  giant  rock,  was 


358  A  Cry  of  Youth 

aroused  by  the  appearance  of  a  splendid  touring  car  that  slowed 
down  as  it  approached;  and  a  sodden,  one-eyed  peasant  smok- 
ing his  pipe  on  his  doorstep,  speculated  upon  the  absurdity  of 
the  rich,  who  with  all  the  country  to  choose  from,  should  come 
here.  "  Friends  of  the  Proffessore  Dottore  Artista"  he  solilo- 
quized, who  himself  arrived  yesterday,  after  a  considerable  ab- 
sence, and  was  to  stop  a  day  or  so  at  the  old  Fortezza  high 
above. 

One  of  the  ladies  in  the  car  who  was  heavily  veiled  threw 
out  handfuls  of  coins  from  a  gold-mesh  purse,  and  the  gentle- 
man in  front  beside  the  chauffeur,  who  had  the  air  of  a  grand 
signore,  kept  his  cap  pulled  down  over  his  eyes  while  he  tossed 
coppers  to  the  little  ones.  Then  their  speed  was  increased  to 
ascend  a  serpentine  road  where  at  the  summit  stood  a  picturesque 
castle,  hoary  with  age,  and  slowly  crumbling  upon  its  crag. 

As  the  party  alighted  in  the  courtyard,  the  hearts  of  the 
Prince  and  Princess  were  too  full  for  words;  they  could  only 
look  at  each  other  with  a  grasp  of  trembling  hands. 

After  luncheon  Fauvel  conducted  his  guests  over  the  castle, 
but  Margaret  excused  herself  on  the  grounds  of  fatigue,  and  she 
and  Leone  were  left  alone. 

Free  from  restraint,  they  wandered  once  again  through  the 
familiar  halls  and  corridors  full  of  memories.  Coming  at  last 
to  the  cedar  room,  they  sat  down  to  rest. 

"  Fauvel  tells  me,"  said  Leone  at  length,  "  that  he  has  picked 
up  some  gossip  in  the  village.  Old  Santoni  died  last  spring, 
and  Carlotta  is  living  in  Buenos  Aires,  so  there  is  nothing  to 
bring  her  back  here.  Clemente  and  Lisa  are  dead  also.  Poor 
old  Clemente,  I  can  almost  hear  the  jingle  of  his  keys!  Beppo 
emigrated  to  the  United  States,  and  Illario,  our  gardener  and 
driver,  is  serving  a  term  for  using  his  knife  in  a  brawl  —  there 
is  the  history  of  our  household." 

"  I  always  said  Illario  looked  like  a  cut-throat,"  Margaret 
answered.  "  But  the  village,  dearest,  can  we  not  do  something 
for  these  poor  peasants?  They  are  so  forlorn!  Did  you 


Tested  and  True  359 

recognize  Tama:3o,  the  blacksmith?  He  looked  more  hopeless 
than  ever.  I  felt  quite  guilty  when  I  saw  those  wretched  peo- 
ple; while  we  have  so  many  blessings,  they  have  nothing. 
Could  we  give  them  a  school,  a  hospital,  a  moving-picture 
house?  " 

"  I  have  thought  the  same  thing,  carissima.  We  will  con- 
sult Meurice  to-night,  and  what  we  do  must  be  given  through 
him." 

They  sat  there  a  long  time,  living  over  again  their  former 
lives  until  they  were  disturbed  by  sound  of  voices  echoing  down 
the  corridor,  and  not  yet  desiring  to  mingle  with  the  others, 
they  rose  and  leaving  the  house  by  the  terrace  door,  strolled  off 
in  the  direction  of  the  ramparts. 

Coming  to  a  certain  point,  they  paused,  enjoying  the  per- 
fumed air  and  superb  view.  Long  ago  one  midsummer  they 
had  looked  upon  this  same  fair  scene  in  their  first  rapturous, 
•stolen  love. 

The  valley  lay  in  a  golden  haze  and  the  hills  were  purple- 
tinged  in  the  setting  sun. 

At  last  the  Prince  spoke.  "  Thou  art  so  silent,  Amore,"  he 
said;  "  of  what  dost  thou  think?  " 

"  Of  the  old  days,"  she  answered.  "  I  was  wondering  why 
we  had  to  pass  through  so  much  before  we  could  be  as  we  are 
now?  " 

"  Perhaps  I  can  tell  thee,"  he  said,  very  gently,  as  he  slipped 
his  arm  around  her.  "  God  saw  that  we  were  standing  in  such 
a  fierce  sunshine  of  love  that  it  might  scorch  the  souls  within  us, 
so  He  sent  us  into  the  shade.  He  kept  us  safe  apart  under  the 
shadow  of  His  wing,  until  He  saw  we  were  strong  enough  to 
live  together  by  the  light  of  His  Faith  in  this  wedded  happiness 
which  we  now  know.  And  so,  sposa  mia,  let  it  be  our  prayer 
always  that  when  this  life  is  over,  we  may  be  found  worthy  at 
the  last  to  stand  together  in  the  great  radiancy  of  heaven,  where 
there  is  '  neither  marriage,  nor  giving  in  marriage'  " 


ENVOI 

There  is  a  winding  mountain  road  where  a  weather-beaten 
shrine  of  the  "  Pieta  "  stands  opposite  an  opening  in  the  nigged 
hillside.  A  cypress  tree  raises  skywards  its  tall  spire,  and  the 
air  is  sweet  with  rosemary  and  resinous  with  pine. 

This  once  sequestered  place  is  now  frequently  traversed  by 
automobiles,  and  their  occupants  sometimes  alight  to  drink 
from  a  stream  of  crystal  water  that  flows  musically  down  the 
high  boulders  that  enclose  a  f airylike  dell ;  and  they  wonder  why 
a  work  of  art  has  been  placed  in  such  a  lonely  spot. 

It  is  a  slender  cross  of  pure  white  marble,  and  at  its  base, 
upon  a  bed  of  passion  flowers,  rests  a  little  lamb.  It  is  sacred 
to  the  peasants,  and  even  to  the  wildest  mountaineers,  who 
reverence  it  as  a  shrine.  There  is  nothing  to  denote  why  it  is 
there,  or  what  it  means,  but  underneath,  chiseled  on  the  rock  in 
a  rough,  unskilled  hand,  are  five  letters  which  form  the  word, 

"  AMORE  " 


THE  END 


360 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A     000127911     6 


